


Lost Hope

by tari_roo



Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Asurans, Cyborg!Rodney, Gen, Genocide, Goa'uld, Hurt John Sheppard, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Powers!Teyla, Recovery, Replicators, Search for Atlantis, Shep with wings, Slave!John Sheppard, Slaves, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:31:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tari_roo/pseuds/tari_roo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wingfic AU. Having survived the destruction of his homeworld, Sheppard escapes the life of a slave on Athos and with a few other runaways, goes in search of their last hope for freedom, Atlantis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Serve God, love me and mend

**Author's Note:**

> Authors Note: I’ve been hacking away at this AU for years – literally and I have played the key scenes of this story in my head so often I feel that the story has already been told – only it hasn’t. Despite my own promises to myself I am posting this as a WIP as its too easy to let RL sidetrack the completion of this story, and at least if its out there… I have the added impetus to finish as you are all waiting too. At the end of each chapter I’ll post a brief summary of the original species encountered.

  
Rating: PG13 for now, maybe R later  
Disclaimer: I own nothing and profit from nothing but if I did… Sheppard would have had wings at point in the series.  
  
Warnings: Alternate Universe. This is completely AU from SGA and SG1 and is set in a fictional galaxy that is the combination of the Milky Way and Pegasus – a seven spiral galaxy. There will be mentions of torture and war, but no overly graphic depictions of such. So be warned for AUness etc.

 

*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga

 

An early evening breeze twisted down out of the mountains to the north, rustling through the Spina tree orchard nestled on the edge of the long floodplain between the mountain ranges. Perched high in the branches of his Spina, Sheppard flexed his trailing primaries, letting the breeze lift and tug at his wings, whispering promises of height and freedom. Sinking below the horizon, framed between where the northern and southern mountains met, the big red sun was staining the chest high blue grass on the plain and the sky overhead a deep rich purple. As the breeze reached the plain, the dense grass imitated the river that periodically swallowed it, and bent and fluttered with swirls and eddies, and little waves.

A flock of large birds were silently gliding over the swaying purple blue grass, skimming the surface; long, slow, lazy flyers, expertly using the wind with as little effort on their part as possible. The wind picked up as the sun sunk further, the temperature dropping and it ruffled his hair and rattled the narrow, stiff leaves of the branch he was leaning against, the leaves a scatter of whispered voices in the air. 

After the noise and busy pace of the work day, a stolen moment of peace and silence was all the more poignant for its brevity, unexpectedness and imminent interruption. ouRiel hadn’t reached his tree yet to unhook his tether, and Sheppard was in no hurry to leave the illusion of solitude and freedom the branches offered. Out of sight of the workers and handlers below, the Spina treetop was a bubble of peace. Leaning forward against the branch, a raised arm supporting him, Sheppard watched the quiet of eveningtime fall over the world, as day turned to slumber. A tremor shivered through the trunk and the branches and leaves clattered, like a dog shaking itself off, the movement echoed throughout the orchard as the Spina trees protested the cooler evening air but Sheppard barely moved on his perch.

The Stargate was on the other side of the plain and the blue grass vlei, lost in the shadows of the native woods dotting the southern mountains. Out of habit long forged, Sheppard searched for its distinctive roundness, and true promise of freedom. Earlier, during the heat of the day, the flash of blue light of an incoming wormhole and the sound of chevrons locking had been all but lost in the distance and noise of Spina harvesting. Every slave though had paused, hunting dog ears pricked, alert for anything unusual in the routine of the day. The duHon had set a sentry to watch the approach from the Gate, but as the afternoon progressed no visitors, no attack, no movement from materialised and the mystery remained, hours later.

The smooth well worn leather lead tied to his manacle moved abruptly, a short sharp pull. The tug on the tether was expected, if not anticipated, but it felt off, not the usual impatient and demanding pull of ouRiel. Obedient to the summons, Sheppard shot one last look at the clear open sky and dropped off his perch, wings opening wide to slow his fall, dropping into shadow. The Spina shivered again as he fell, and Sheppard twisted to avoid a branch as the Spina shifted, shaking its limbs. He flared his wings to slow further, and gain a little height before dropping below the cluster of brittle leaves and branches. Once clear, the drop was fast and controlled, the long, smooth trunk of the tree streaming past in the blur, air rushing past his face.

Landing with a little more force than required, Sheppard used the opportunity to stretch out his wings to their full extent, one last stretch before the slave pen, and restraints for the night. The looming hulk of ouRiel was absent though, and instead the little duHon was slowly wrapping the long tether to the hook in the tree’s roots and untying the leash. Folding back his wings, caught a little off guard, Sheppard extended his wrists, ready for the first loop of the leash, but the duHon shook his head. “No. We fly.”

The duHon’s use of Pegasii was enough to give Sheppard pause and he replied in kind, “The Gate?”  He half turned towards the now unseen Stargate, eyes trying to penetrate the full evening gloom. The duHon nodded but reverted to his native Reformed Centarii, “On your knees, Feathers. I need to go warn those fools, before they kill us all. And right in the middle of the harvest – I don’t have the time for this.”

With the prospect of a relatively short flight ahead with a burden, Sheppard didn’t bother shifting circulation to his legs and kept his wings in full flight mode. Awkwardly he knelt down so that the diminutive Foreman could climb onto his back, dropping his wings so that the feathers kissed the carpet of dried, brittle leaves that covered the whole orchard. The duHon’s tether hook, which all the slavers kept on hand, knocked his right wing and tapped his head as the little daGaren stepped onto the small of his back, and wrapped his stubby right arm around Sheppard’s neck. Shifting his wings, helping the duHon get comfortable, Sheppard got another hard tap on the head for his trouble. “Don’t try anything funny, Feathers. I’ll take you down with me.” The duHon’s breath brushed the back of his neck and Sheppard caught a glimpse of the tether hook out of the corner of his eye.

Not bothering to reply, Sheppard slowly stood, letting the small daGaren get settled, his sharp little feet digging into his sides. “Stars, you’re scrawny, Feathers... nothing to hold onto,” the deGaren grumbled, finally settling on one arm wrapped around his throat, the other clutching his hair. The tether hook bumped and knocked his head as the little oaf pulled and grumbled. Sheppard stepped back a little and sighed, “You ready?”

A short, sharp tap on his head, a growled affirmative and Sheppard did a one, two, running leap and took off, beating his wings hard to break away, and gain altitude quickly. It was harder than expected, even if this wasn’t the first time he’d ferried the duHon around. He had few opportunities to truly fly and the daily up and down flying motion whilst harvesting had strengthened his ability to hover in place, but the muscles and effort needed for long flights were under utilised. Gone were the days were he could fly comfortably for hours on end. While the Kurgens and Meroy were big enough to carry the duHon, neither species were inclined to resist the opportunity to kill one of their masters, so invariable Sheppard ferried the diminutive head slaver when required. He really didn’t mind, in truth - any excuse to fly.

Once clear of the Spina orchard and the rustle of shifting branches, Sheppard let loose, jostling the duHon slightly as he picked up speed, but opportunities to really fly came so rarely he wasn’t about to squander this one. The evening air was still rife with warm currents from the day even as cooler night air sunk downwards, and as he flew over the grass choked riverbed, he caught the perfect updraft that lifted them into the night, the stars slowly revealing themselves overhead. From this angle and height, the ruined sprawl of the Athosian city in the valley below the Gate rolled out like decay spoiling the smooth beauty of the plain. The southern forest had not encroached into the city proper as yet, but the forerunners of the forest; shrubs, vines and overgrown gardens and parks were finishing the destruction and slowly burying the city the Asurans had killed. Eradicating the decay and the evidence of a civilisation lost to vagaries of war and an insane nation.

The strangers had set up camp on the edge of the city, amid the few buildings that were still standing – no doubt using the structures as readymade shelter. Whatever the reason the Asurans had left those buildings standing was immaterial and the duHon shouted in his ear. “Down. On the edge, near the trees.” Furling in and shortening the span of his wings, Sheppard circled down, watching for movement, picking a clear space to land. Timing it just right, he landed softly, feet crunching into a pile of dead leaves, the down draft from his wings sending the leaves spiralling around them. Straight away a cry went up from the camp, artificial lights turning towards their general area. They had set up perimeter lighting and sentries, and their response was swift as men and lights quickly found them. 

The duHon dropped to the ground with grunt, and hit Sheppard’s calf lightly with his tether hook and snapped, “Lift.”When Sheppard obeyed and raised his foot, the deGeran wrapped the leash around his ankle a few times, tugged to test it and gripped it tightly. “I give the word and you take off, got it,” he growled. The duHon may not have brought along an ‘overt’ weapons, but the tether hook packed a nasty punch and would provide enough of an unpleasant surprise for them to escape in the confusion – if needed.

“Got it,” Sheppard murmured, and kept his wings primed for flight. The leash was already tightly bound to the manacle link surgically inserted into the back of his ankle, but at least the duHon felt satisfied he’d be able to hold on during a rapid lift off. They stood silently and cautiously watched the approaching people, Sheppard lowering his wings, trying not to seem too large or intimidating, but still ready to fly. Heavy, sturdy boots crunched the leaves as the men approached, their grey uniforms suggesting soldiers of some sort. As they entered the clearing they raised projectile based firearms at them both, their faces grim and unfriendly. The duHon snorted in amusement, but gripped the tether hook tight, and the leather leash.

Not quite surrounded but definitely penned in, Sheppard and the duHon waited and watched in silence until a large man stepped forward and in heavily accented Pegasii demanded, “Who are you? Speak.” The man’s face was obscured slightly by the shadows his hat cast, the light streaming behind him, but he spoke with confidence, his posture radiating calm assurance.

The duHon stepped forward and replied in Reformed Centarii, “A pox on the Asurans. Well met.” He followed that with badly mangled Pegasii and tried to say, “Death to Asurans. Greetings.”

The man stared at the duHon blankly for a second, perhaps trying to decipher his words and sighed in Pegasii more to himself, “Damn Asur to the deepest black.”

Shuffling a little, the duHon probably understood Pegasii well enough but without the Stargate’s translation logarithm working, he was not confident in speaking any language but his own, and his tense movements confirmed that. Giving up, he nudged Sheppard, impatiently, and Sheppard translated his first greeting into Pegasii, “Well met, strangers. May the Asurans get the pox and die.”

The men around them didn’t move, but the spokesperson smiled grimly nodded. Their eyes though were fixed more on Sheppard than the small deGaren. Pointing to himself, the duHon continued, “I am D’Hr, duHon of the Spina orchard across the valley. I bring you warning.”

Sheppard carefully translated that, choosing his words wisely and the group of soldiers murmured as he mentioned a warning. Waving them to silence the lead man held up his hand, and said softly, eyes boring into Sheppard but glancing at the deGaren, “I am Commander Kolya of the Genii. Well met.”

The duHon bowed as Sheppard translated into Centarii, and then carefully pointed at Kolya with his hook and said sharply, “I do not think you know the dangers of this world. Camping close to the ruins is a risk to your lives and ours.” He pointed to the buildings behind the Genii, his face fixed in the disapproving expression his people favoured when speaking with non-deGerans.

Once Sheppard had finished translating for Kolya, man growled in reply, “What could a little Centarii possibly know about a Pegasus world?” Sheppard translated quickly, but the duHon did not need to hear all the words to know Koyla was dismissive of his warning. 

Flicking his head to the side in irritation D’Hr  shrugged diffidently, “More than you, fool.” Sheppard left out the insult, and the duHon noticed but it did not react. In all likelihood, Koyla recognised the insult anyway.

The Genii were unmoved, nothing in their bearing betraying any emotion. Kolya snorted softly and spoke with a dangerous edge to his voice, “Say your piece, little bug.” Sheppard didn’t leave that out.

The duHon turned to look at the native trees of Athos rising behind them, so much smaller than Spina trees from his world, silent and motionless and said stiffly, “If you know anything of recent events on Athos, then you would know not to remain here.”

Kolya barked a laugh, “The Asuran fleet has not been in this sector for months... “ D’Hr interrupted him, and the little duHon spoke fast as he said, “They have been seen nowhere for months! Every sector fears their return – you’d be foolish to imagine that they will not!”

Stepping forward, his face suddenly clear and unobscured, Koyla growled, “The Genii are no fools.”

D’Hr sniffed, and pointed the tether hook at Koyla, motioning at the soldiers around them as well, “The Athosian’s had Ancient blood and technology and they could not stand against the Asurans. What makes you think you and these primitive weapons will fare any better?”

Swiftly Koyla drew a handgun, its long narrow barrel pointed straight at the duHon. “The Asurans are not here and that hook will not stop my bullet, bug.”

They stared at eachother, unmoving for several long seconds, wind moving the tree tops and Sheppard’s wings. The soldiers fidgeted slightly, fingers brushing triggers, eyes scanning everything. Sheppard licked his lips and wondered if he could gain enough height to avoid any bullets.

Slowly as if speaking to an infant, D’Hr hissed, “There is no time for this idiocy. We are all in danger and your lives and mine depend on you listening!” Sheppard translated quickly, and watched as Koyla’s expression got darker. He growled, “What frightens you, bug?”

The duHon snapped, “I fear the Athosians, as well you should.” A round of laughter greeted his words as Sheppard translated, and Koyla gestured dismissively.

A shorter man, dressed in similar uniform to Kolya, marking him an officer perhaps, stepped forward and said primly, “The Athosian’s abandoned this world, and live as nomads in Pegasus. Do you fear their anger at learning we are here?” The wind was dying down as true night fell, the stars bright in the sky, a thousand points of light.

Laughing, blowing air through his nose, D’Hr sneered, “They fled the Asuran bombardment of their city, yes. But some remained, a group of survivors.” The deGeran inched closer to Koyla, both to point at the ruins behind them and probably to get within striking distance, if needed. He continued, Sheppard echoing his words in Pegasii. “Part of the Asuran assault included infecting the population with a virus – a virus that attacked Athosians with the blood of the Ancients. It reduced them into mindless savages! The other Athosians fled to escape them just as much as the Asurans.”

Before Kolya could speak and as Sheppard finished the Pegasii version, the other Genii officer snapped, “How do you know this? None of the Athosians mentioned a virus.”

The duHon jabbed his tether hook into the ground and growled, “Then perhaps they wished you dead – as they certainly told us about it.” Koyla shared a knowing look with his officer, rubbing his jaw in thought. The air was growing chilly and robust with tension as the silence lengthened out.

Kolya eventually sighed, “Enough, Laden.” Turning to the duHon, he said roughly, “So there are savage Athosians living on this world. We are well armed and protected. We have nothing to fear.”

Throwing his little arms up in anger, D’Hr shouted, “They attack, and kill anyone who goes near the ruins, without fail. Nno amount of weapons or men or technology seems to stop them!”

Staring at D’Hr, studying him, Koyla shrugged, “You seemed to have survived, so thank you for the warning. Now go.”

Given permission like it was his to give and the duHon did not like that, or his tone. D’hr snarled and pointed his tether hook at Kolya, jabbing it in the air, “It is not just your lives you risk. They will attack us also, simply because we are in the area. Once disturbed they do not stop!”

“Perhaps you fear savages, little bug, but we do not. Now go,” Kolya snapped, as he turned away, dismissing the duHon.

Yanking on Sheppard’s leash, D’Hr shouted, “Perhaps you misunderstand me, Commander,” implying that Sheppard was doing a poor job translating or Koyla was stupid. “They are cunning, intelligent and powerful, for all of their savagery. You will lose many lives tonight – if not all. They wield abilities from the Ancients.”

Kolya didn’t turn back fully, but spoke over his shoulder, looking down at D’Hr with a sneer, “Then perhaps you should flee, little bug. Run back to your world. You are no longer welcome. Leave. Now.” The collective ‘readying’ of the soldiers’ firearms was a concert of clicks and locks as they raised their weapons. The deGaren’s chitinous skin was pale in the light and he yanked again on Sheppard’s leash. “Kneel!” he growled in Centarii.

Internalising the sigh, Sheppard dropped to one knee and the little deGeran climbed onto his back. Without waiting for the command, Sheppard stood, keenly aware the D’Hr wanted to get back to the slave compound as quickly as possible. The sound and motion of Sheppard unfurling his wings to their full length startled the group of Genii and the soldiers stepped back in fright as the flight primaries nearly reached them. At just over ten feet, his wingspan was impressive especially in the smaller area of the clearing. Both Kolya and Laden stared at Sheppard, and as Sheppard looked to the sky, judging his spatial constraints, Laden shouted, “Is he for sale?”

D’Hr, duHon and slave master of the deGarens on Athos, replied in broken Pegasii, “The Black take you.” He jabbed Sheppard with the tether hook, and held on tight to his neck and hair. Sheppard waited for the right night updraft and leapt smoothly, the rising wind lifting them. Turning slowly, using the air flow beneath his wings and adjusting the angle of his wings, Sheppard turned towards the Spina orchard. His circle over the forest below gave him a clear view of the Genii below, all of whom were watching his climb, their upturned faces white spots in the gloom, the brights lights of their camp a clarion call in the night.

“Fools. Quickly, slave!” the duHon growled and squeezed his legs like he was riding a herdbeast or horse. Grunting a little, Sheppard glided for a moment trailing a stronger updraft and then quickly gained height, beating hard to build up speed. The descent towards the deGeran’s compound and the slave pen was fast and heady, the pressure of the wind on his face exhilarating.

The moment he landed, D’Hr was off his back and shouting for his colleagues. ouReil ambled over, twice the height and girth of the duHon but still shorter than Sheppard and took the leash from his duHon.  The compound had its own set of perimeter lights and as a result so did the slave pen, at least until the lights were turned off, then the pen would be plunged into darkness. For whatever reason, the Athosians left them alone and only seemed to react if someone went near the ruins.

As a hanful deGerans ran over at D’hr’s summons, ouReil grunted and motioned at Sheppard. Reluctantly, still relishing the feel of the wind on his wings, Sheppard extended his wrists, bracing himself as ouReil was always rough, but efficient with this. The leash that was permanently attached to the ring in his ankle was wrapped around each wrist, with a small loop of leash between each hand, and then run down to the ring in his other foot and then back to the start. Hobbled, Sheppard began folding his wings back, settling them on his back, flattening the feathers, curling the primaries and major flight feathers around his chest. The duHon and his men were arguing, unable to decide if they should stay or run, their voices sharp and high with excitement and fear. The last Athosian attack had badly damaged the compound, with several dead deGerans and a lot of damaged equipment, dead slaves and time wasted in tending the injured.

ouRiel was slightly distracted by the argument so he simply opened the pen gate and let Sheppard enter, rather than ensuring his bonds were secure and walking him to his section of the pen. The slave keeper hurried back the collected deGarens and a sharp voice shouted in Centarii, “You risk everything, D’Hr. We should simply leave!”

The slave pen was large enough to allow people who were born to fly to feel relatively at ease. They were fenced in by high walls and a roof of thick wire mesh, charged with a power current. The slaves were only allowed to mingle until lights out, a brief time to relax and eat after a hard day’s work. Then they were secured, each species allocated to a corner, with the ablution block in the centre of the pen. The restraining leash made everyone ungainly and awkward as they moved around the pen. Carefully Sheppard made his way over for whatever was left of the evening meal. A stiff piece of oaten bread – full of nutrients and protein, but very little taste. 

 As the only one of his kind, Sheppard bunked with the delicate Flittas in the southernmost corner of the pen, the one nearest the Stargate. deGaren slavers separated male and female slaves, and ensured that in a multi-species pen that there were only ever one gender of each species. The Flittas were the only females, and neither the male Kurgens or Meroy found them appealing at all. The Veesh were notoriously xenophobic and kept to themselves, claiming the far north corner, as far from everyone as possible. Sheppard had no idea what gender they were, if they even had a gender as they universally ignored all but the deGarens. The Kurgens, prone to jostling eachother and wrestling, rattling their insectoid shells in mock battles and play, were a noisy bunch in their section of the pen. The Meroy, with their thin, leathery wings snapping with each landbound movement, sometimes joined in the ruckus, keen fighters and a fairly sociable species. Tonight thought their faces were turned towards the deGarens, listening in on the conversation, ignoring the boisterous Kurgens who were as loud as ever.

As Sheppard sat down in his usual spot, and attacked the bread with real hunger, Iskth approached him her flat opaque eyes round with worry. Her Centarii was terrible and she was nervous so she blurted out in her native Upper Carino, “Is it true? Strangers? And the Athosians will attack?”

Nodding, Sheppard chewed slowly, savouring what could be his final meal. Her gossamer wings shimmered, betraying her anxiety as she threw herself down beside him, careful of her own leash and restraints. There wasn’t anything to say beyond that, nothing a slave could do other than worry or accept impending death. Whatever the deGarens decided whether to flee or stay and defend, it was doubtful they would take the slaves with them, or protect them. Iskth was one to worry though and she kept twisting her smooth, bald head this way and that, as if she was watching for signs of the impending attack, eyes scanning everything. Her thin, spindly fingers ran this way and that over her crossed legs as much as her bonds allowed, her transparent wings twitching and catching the light with each movement.

Sheppard finished the bread all too quickly, the exertion of however brief a flight making him hungrier than usual and the meal had come nowhere near filling him. Iskth was now shooting him watchful looks as well and Sheppard gave her a small smile. “Iskth ...”

“Please, Feathers... just this once,” she trailed her, her mouth round and open with emotion.

Staring at her for a second, her fear vibrating in the air almost, he broke the glance. “Give me a hand,” he said quickly, hoping to distract her and unfurled his wings at the same time. Iskth sighed with a small burp and nodded, standing awkwardly, nearly entangling her four legs in the leash. The six months or so of steady work on Athos with the routine of Spina harvesting and regular meals from the deGarens had given Sheppard the opportunity to get his wings into a fairly healthy condition.  Iskth had taken to helping him with his nightly grooming ritual a few months ago, intrigued by his feathers at first and later enjoying the ritual. Gently stretching out each wing, Sheppard curled one inwards, and ran his fingers through the long primaries, checking for numbness and damage. Pressing into the gland at the base of the last joint, Sheppard began massaging oil from the gland into the primaries, careful and slow.

At first Iskth had been merely curious that he needed to care for his wings like this as her own gossamer ones were multilayered and constantly shed and regrew over the months. Fliean, her home world, had no creatures like birds, with feathers, so her curiosity overcame her shyness and what started as just watching him each night had turned into her helping with the feathers and glands on his back that he couldn’t reach.

Her breath was cold and light on his neck as she worked the gland at the base of the wing where it met skin on his shoulder. Those feathers were soft and fluffy, and Iskth’s sharp, sticklike fingers felt too alien to do more than vaguely remind Sheppard of Nancy’s warmer, more experienced hands. Even after several months, Iskth’s technique was too rough, and brisk but Sheppard didn’t mind too much, as grooming was supposed to be a bonding activity between lovers and friends. Iskth didn’t know that, and Sheppard had no intention of telling her as the Flittas had odd notions about interspecies relations. As it was, her fellow Flittas thought her friendship with him was strange. Regular oiling kept his feathers healthy, waterproof, and increased his ability to flex and shape them.

He took his time, oiling each primary thoroughly, working back towards the secondary feathers, as far as he could reach comfortably. The oil smelt like home, fresh warm evenings under the trees watching the sunset, familiar fingers burrowing into his feather. The feathers glistened and shone in the light, and as he finished Sheppard ran through the range of basic exercises, sending blood and fluid in and out of each feather, expanding to full flight thickness and shrinking right down to sharp, stiff spikes. 

As usual, Iskth watched this in fascination, leaning over his shoulder, her own task forgotten. “You are not scared?” she whispered, her eyes watching his feathers and not his face. Sheppard caught her eye, and smiled again, small and sad and said, “We survived the last attack, Iskth. Why not again?”

Her hard, lipless mouth opened in protest but rather than answer, she turned away and started on his other wing, working the gland and then running the oil through the thick base feathers. As Sheppard worked the primaries on the other wing, Iskth sighed softly, “I am afraid, Feathers. You may be resigned to death, but I still have hope.”

There was no answer for that, especially as the noisy discussion outside the pen had come to an end, the deGarens falling into unhappy silence. Loudly the duHon ordered the compound secured, so apparently the deGerans were staying, and hoping the improved security would keep the Athosians out. ouReil was hurrying over to start securing the slaves early, his flat face furrowed in an angry scowl as he rushed past the fence. deGarens often looked funny when they ran, their squat frames not designed for quick movement, the heavy gravity of their home world predisposing them to a more sedate pace. Iskth fluttered nervously at Sheppard’s shoulder and gasped, “They will leave us out again, as a distraction, bait.”

All of the slaves, even the thick skinned, often oblivious Kurgens, in the slave pen were quiet, fear in the air. The Kurgens ended their tussle, separating out into sleeping positions, while the Meroy were pressed closely together, seeking reassurance from that contact. ouReil’s assistants joined him at the gate, and as the deGarens entered, Iskth hissed in Sheppard’s ear, her rough skin scratching his chin, “Please...”

ouReil tended to leave the smaller, less volatile Flittas to last, so Sheppard had time and Iskth was visibly trembling.  Giving in he pulled her close, gathered her in his arms like a child and wrapped his wings around them. In the semi-privacy this gave them, he kissed her gently on the forehead and she wrapped her spindly arms around his torso, burying her hands in his wings, thin legs also curling around him. Too often it felt mean to refuse this small comfort to her, when all she wanted, longed for, was to be held and loved. Flittas were social and gregarious and slept in an entangled mess from the time they were born until they found mates. Their males were larger and heavier and Iskth missed her mate, missed the comfort of his arms and body. Sheppard disliked the emotions it stirred within him, or rather the memories – of someone pressed against him.

It would always be too short a time for Iskth, when all she wanted was forever, her mate and the opportunity to see him again, so when ouReil came hurrying over, her grunt of protest was sharp and sad. Opening his wings, Sheppard felt her shiver and reluctantly she untangled herself, the stolen moment of comfort far too brief. Uncaring that ouReil was glaring at them, she pecked his chin softly with a kiss. “Thank you, Feathers,” she whispered. One of the assistants hurried her towards the others who were being secured, leaving Sheppard to ouReil.

“Having fun, lover boy?” ouReil drawled, as he approached with the night restraints. Each species was secured differently, dependent on their anatomy and wings.  The deGarens wanted to limit movement as much as possible, but not so much that injury would occur – just enough to prevent exploration, fights and possible escape attempts in the night. ouReil had yet to find that balance with Sheppard, even after so many months, but perhaps he simply did not want to. Slapping his wings with the tetherhook, ouReil grumbled, “Fold ‘em, now.”

Feathers shining dark and glossy in the overhead lights, Sheppard obeyed, lying the wings flat, curling them around his torso so that they overlapped. He pulled blood and fluid out so that the feathers were as thin and light as possible, shrinking down to a third of full flight size. Lifting his arms so that ourReil could wrap thick leather restraints around his torso, Sheppard watched the other deGarens pull everything of worth inside their compound. ouReil tightened the straps to the point of discomfort, snapping the clasps closed.  He then grabbed a thick collar and wrapped it around his throat. It was both unnecessary and painful, but ouReil fitted it every night, nonetheless. The stiff padded material of the collar forced his head up, jaw clenched as ouReil buckled the collar closed and then clicked the cuffs onto his wrists. The cuffs were linked to the collar by a chain, too short for real comfort, but long enough for Sheppard to move around. Last, the end of the leash knotted in the ring in his foot was tied to the stake driven into the hard ground.

Finished, ouReil mussed Sheppard’s thick hair and laughed, “Sleep tight.”

As the deGarens left and his hair righted itself, Iskth looked over from her own restrained position and smiled. Her fellow Flittas were busy huddling together as best as they could, both for warmth and security. When the lights in the compound faded and true night enclosed the pen, Sheppard lay back and looked up at the stars. Athos was perfectly positioned for the great spirals of Carina and Centarii to arc across the sky. The unique Pegasus stars were now familiar friends, but even after all these years it hurt to see an alien sky overhead. The great Core often obscured the Persion spiral from Pegasus skies but on nights when the Carina spiral was faint, like tonight, Persion glistened like a distant cloud on the horizon.

Crushing his wings beneath him, ignoring the physical pain and shortened breath, Sheppard stared at Persion rising and lost himself in memories of Helios – of home.

 

To be continued in part 2

 

Species mentioned and notes on the galaxy:

The Ancient Galaxy: massive spiral galaxy with seven spiral arms centered around a huge core. The names of the spiral arms are: Carina, Persion, Orion, Magellan, Omega, Centarii, and Pegasus.

This chapter takes place on: Athos, which is in the Pegasus arm of the galaxy.

The Ancients formulated a translation algorithm to assist the many varied species of the galaxy in communication. In recent years the Asurans have disrupted that algorithim and people no longer automatically understand one another

deGerans – a small, squat species from the Centarii spiral, with rough shell-like skin. Well known as traders, and slavers, they plant colonies of trees native to their home world, Spina Trees, on other worlds to harvest the fruit, bark and leaves which are used in medicines and food products around the galaxy . The deGarens are genderless and operate in trading consortiums other than families. Each consortium is lead by a duHon, or Manager and can range from ten individuals to over a thousand. They view all other species as other customers or products.

Kurgens – an massive insectlike species from Carina. Loud and boisterous they make a great of noise and commotion but are generally a passive species. With no high technology or interstellar flight capacity their world is often raided by more developed species

Meroy – a batlike humanoid species from a forested planet in Centarii. On their homeworld they hardly, if ever, land and spend their lives on the wing or perched in trees. As a result, they are ungainly on land and ideally suited to the deGaren Spina byproduct trade.

Flittas – a delicate, small species from Carina, who hail from a low gravity world near the Core. Both genders are bald, with sticklike arms and four legs. Resembling a stick insect, they appear frail but are relatively strong despite the low gravity on their world. They pair off for life and are notorious breeders, one female being able to produce upward to 100 offspring in her lifetime. Males are excellent co-parents. Highly sociable and socially interlinked they do not thrive in isolation

Veesh – a birdlike species from Centarii, who are extremely xenophobic. As a result though, their technology is not on par with other worlds and deGaren slavers frequently target their colonies. Veesh refuse to use StarGates and bury all StarGates found on their colonies. Very little is known of their society and culture. 

 


	2. This is not the end

Chapter 2: This is not the End

Sheppard lay awake listening to the sounds of the night, nocturnal creatures stirring in the nearby native forest, the rustle of the wind through the trees. Athos’s largest moon slowly rose over the forest, pale and ghostly in the clear starry sky. At this time of year it was only visible for a few hours before sinking back beneath the horizon, its crater pocked surface glistening in the reflected light. The slave pen was quiet and tense as the moon disappeared, the light it shed waning rapidly, and very few of the slaves were asleep, their eyes bright in the fading moonlight. Sheppard twisted to see the Gate in the distance, the distant lights of the Genii camp just visible.

The Athosians came in the darkest hour, after the first moon had set and the second was yet to rise, the night thick with stars. The attack was fast, sharp and explosive. Sheppard glimpsed a rush of figures, dark against the night and the boom of the power generator exploding rocked the night and coloured everything in bright yellows and reds. Instantly the Athosians were visible, ragged figures darting from the shadows, long knives glistening in the flames. The deGarens answered in kind, plasma rifle blasts shooting out from their compound, targeting the Athosians. With the power generator destroyed, none of the floodlights came on; leaving the deGarens reliant on the ambient light of the fire, and the Athosian’s themselves.

Far in the distance, the Genii camp exploded into flame, an explosion booming across the valley, and the night was filled with screams and shouts as the Athosians surged forward. The deGarens laid down covering defensive fire as best they could, but the Athosians charged ahead regardless, shooting and throwing fire at the compound walls. Several fell to the plasma blasts, but more and more Athosians appeared, screaming their defiance, hurling fire at the deGarens.  Great arcs of raw flame battered the compound, scattering the deGaren defenders, while two screaming Athosians powered fire straight from their hands at the large metal door leading inside. The door was buckling slowly under the onslaught.

Sheppard lay still, and motioned for Iskth to do the same, but the Flittas were already frozen in fear, all of them motionless, eyes fixed on the attack. There was a good chance the Athosians would ignore the slaves in favour of a proper fight, but if they were riled up enough, the sight and smell of any alien would invoke an attack. A ferocious one. The deGarens were putting on a good fight, the plasma rifle fire was steady and consistent, knocking down Athosian after Athosian, but alas, the savage attackers were also making progress, the metal door giving way, as more and more Athosians joined the assault.

Lying still, trying to breathe easy through the fear soaked adrenalin and restraints, Sheppard tracked the scattered Athosians running around with demented purpose, trying to judge their mood. Abruptly, as if stepping out of the darkness, an Athosian ran past the mesh of the pen, its brutish face snarling at them, looking for a way in, sparking fire from its hands. Back towards the orchard, one of the Spina trees exploded into flame, its branches snapping and cracking. The Athosians were spreading out, perhaps as more arrived.

A massive ‘crack’ echoed in the night as the combined fire assault broke through the compound gate and wall. If the intense focused heat could breach the compound walls, the sturdy wire mesh stood no chance. A couple more Athosians ran towards the slave pen, their long knives shining and glistening in the light from the fires. The Veesh cried aloud in one voice, a raucous sound of fear and even though Sheppard couldn’t see it with the ablution block in the way, he heard the fire and screams. The Athosians were inside.

Sheppard struggled to stand up, unable and unwilling to meet death lying down, even hampered by cord and shackles. It was awkward, the leash pulling him up short as he rose to a crouch, the tough strong leather cutting into his hands, the chain pulling against the collar.

A massive explosion rocked the area, as something inside the deGaren compound exploded, a blast wave of light and sound deafening everyone, and Sheppard felt the buffeting pressure displacement motion. Probably an overheated plasma rifle. Or the power generator.

Straining his eyes and ears to see their attackers, Sheppard pulled and fought the restraints, trying to find a little, any, leeway. Inside the slaves’ quarters there was lots of movement and sound, the Meroy chattering and screeching in dismay, but shards if he could actually see any of the Athosians. Where had they gone? Outside the Athosians were bright and visible, dancing with flames as they burned down the compound, their fires hot enough to crack stone, screeching and howling. Inside… it was too quiet, even with the Veesh and Meroy chattering nervously, their speech lost in the noise and fear.

Perhaps the Athosians had been distracted by the fight outside, or side-tracked by something else.

An ear-splitting chorus of wails, a tumult of fear rocked the pen and the ablution building burst into flame, the fire reaching up at the sturdy mesh. The Kurgens and Meroy began to scream and shout in panic and pain, and Sheppard tensed, ready to defend himself.

 

 The thud of running feet to the right was all the warning he had and Sheppard twisted in time to turn the blade directed at his chest, so that it tore through the leather straps and top feathers over his shoulder, missing his spine. Twisting Sheppard kicked out, and although it was weak, and slightly off, it was enough to make his attacker stumble. He didn’t knock her far. Long hair obscured her face, but her frame was too slight to be anything but female and unfortunately she was not alone. More Athosians were running towards the Flittas, who were screaming and trying to escape, to no avail, kept in place by their bounds.

Sheppard’s attacker rolled onto her feet and launched herself at him with a scream, long blade narrowly missing his arm as he grappled with her awkwardly. Limited in his reach by the restraint, he grabbed her arm, and tried to stop the blade from piercing his chest, but she was strong and he was hampered by the chains and leash. She twisted around him, wrapping her legs around him to trap his arms and free hers. Screeching she lashed out, trying to cut his throat, but the thick collar turned the blade aside, and it bit into his collar bone instead. Furious, she hacked at the collar, screaming in his ear, her long hair falling over his face.

Trapped and pinned by her muscular legs, but not as ready to die as Iskth thought, Sheppard flexed his wings in desperation, and felt the leather give just a little. Pouring as much strength and blood into his wings as possible, Sheppard rolled in Athosian’s grasp, not dislodging her as she rolled with him and pushed his wings against the restraints. The Athosian screamed in fury and tightened her legs and sliced his jaw several times as she tried to fit her blade between collar and jaw. Desperate, he strained hard and Sheppard felt something pop in his wing and then heard a snap as the leather separated and in an explosion of feathers, one wing was free. Turning with the momentum, he slammed it into the woman.

Stunned, she fell back and then cried out as Sheppard thinned the feathers and lashed out, the hard edges slicing her arms and legs. She backed off a little and Sheppard shook himself, trying to free the other wing. Sheppard tried to stand but got as far as his knees, and needing to move ‘now’ he yanked on the chain linking the cuffs and collar and suddenly the collar was off, shredded to pieces by the Athosian.

The leather was harder to cut, and Sheppard only had time to try slicing once, before the Athosian was on him again, her knife raised high. Whirling around, his wing knocked her back again, but not as far as before and she was on his back in an instant, knife at his throat, already cutting and screaming at him. “Die, die, die.”

Moving quickly, Sheppard grabbed the blade, which bit deeply into his hands, but he held on tight. She screamed and twisted the knife trying to plunge into his chest. All around him were sounds of death and pain, screams and terror lacing the night, his heart pounding in his ears, her long hair in his eyes and mouth. She started pulling on his hair with one hand, stretching out his neck, making it a bigger target, and he awkwardly fought her for the blade, needing to turn it just a little more. Digging deep, Sheppard slowly pushed the blade away from his throat, the Athosian screaming in his ear the whole time, fighting him with incredible strength for someone so small.

Her hands started to get hot, and Sheppard figured he was seconds away from being immolated and pushed hard for the knife, suddenly reaching his goal. The nearest piece of the leather leash. One brief cut, the strain from his still trapped wing and it snapped and the leash fell apart. Both wings now free, and able to stand, Sheppard heaved upwards, knocking the Athosian off him, batting her away with his wings.

But not without cost – she slashed and sliced at him as she fell, hands smoking and signing his feathers. Not wanting to give her time to regroup, Sheppard whirled on her, lifting his wings into fighting position, wide and deadly, most of the feathers thinned and sharp, poised to attack.

The Athosian was crouched, ready to launch herself at time, but she was staring up at his wings, her eyes wide and fearful. Behind him the ablution block was burning rapidly, the heat reaching him in waves and bursts. The entire pen was a riot of noise and screams, the Flittas fighting back finally, but losing judging by the cries and screams.

His attacker though was growing pale, the anger fading from her dirty brutish face, highlighted by the dancing firelight. Sheppard tensed to attack, to use the moment of indecision, suddenly desperate to reach the Flittas. Abruptly the Athosian clutched her head and wailed her oddly beautiful voice loud and clear.

The other Athosians stopped the handful that he could see, all looking at her. His Athosian stood, still wailing and cried out in Ancient, her accent lilting and musical, “Bright as the sun, dark as the night!”

Caught off guard to hear those words, Sheppard heard himself reply softly, “Rise with the breeze, touch the light.”

For a second her eyes cleared, the confused anger and pain gone, and Sheppard looked into the face of a kind, gentle woman. The moment vanished too quickly and she clutched her hair tighter and screamed as if in pain. All around her the other Athosians screamed as well, some touching their faces and heads. The chorus of screams rose and undulated and Sheppard reached out to her, trying to snag the blade. Startled she stepped back and screamed, “Fly, fly, the dawn rises!”

And she was gone, running like she was being pursued. The rest of the Athosians followed her, their own cries less strident, but seemingly caught up in her emotion. Looking around, Sheppard saw it wasn’t just the Athosians in the pen that were running; they all were, some echoing her cry, “Fly, Fly!”

The heat of the fire overtook the ablution block and it cracked and collapsed, falling backwards. In fact the entire pen was collapsing, and Sheppard backed up, feet treading in pools of blood until he reached the Flittas. Overhead the pen’s roof snapped and melted, falling down in one corner. A few surviving Meroy and Kurgens stumbled towards them, escaping the flames from the building and the collapsing metal from their side.

Half afraid the entire thing would fall and finish off what the Athosians had started, Sheppard anxiously watched as the thick beams of the frame bent and buckled but eventually settled. Silence fell over the pen and the survivors inside. Whatever entrance the Athosians had created was lost behind the burning building, their cage was smaller and filled with the dead.

Sheppard turned to see how the deGarens had fared. The compound was ablaze, smoke billowing from several windows. There was no sign of movement or survivors.  There was very little movement from the huddled slaves as well. Iskth.

One of the Flittas, nearest the mesh started crying, her voice thready and broken. Sheppard starred at the survivors and snapped in Carino, “Find the injured, see if you can help.” Startled, they nodded and staggered off to do so, to brave the flames. Sheppard knelt and began sawing at the leash of a Flitta who seemed alive beneath all the blood, with one of his fallen feathers. As he worked, he watched her face, trying to judge the extent of her injuries. It was slow work with the feather – too slow and Sheppard watched the life drain out of her before he could even find her wounds.

Sighing, he stopped and looked up, watching the few Flitta who were free check on their friends. The glint of metal in firelight caught his eye, and Sheppard reached around a very dead Flitta to find an Athosian dagger, the blade still covered in slivery Flitta blood. Picking it up, he quickly cut a few more slaves free, even if they were already dead.

It was difficult to see with the smoke, even if the fire helped, but eventually he spotted Iskth, her face covered in shadow. Scrambling, fear clutching at his throat, Sheppard reached her, and carefully touched her, turning her onto her back. She was bleeding, everywhere, her face splattered in dark silver blood. Feeling for a pulse, reaching behind her ear, he felt one beating faintly. One was bad, she should have three. With two deft slices her cut her free, the bindings falling around her, freeing her shimmering wings.

Sheppard tucked the knife under his wing for safe keeping, and touched Iskth’s face again. One of the Flittas hop skipped over to Sheppard and Iskth, took one look at her and hissed at him, “She is too badly hurt.”

“The others?” he asked, not really looking up at her.

The Flitta stared at him and opened her mouth in an ‘o’ of grief before saying, “Too many dead, three we can save.” Sheppard nodded and looked down at Iskth. She was awake, barely, her eyes darting around and scanning his eyes. He didn’t notice when the other Flitta left, as he gently gathered Iskth into his arms, and held her carefully. He brought one wing around her, covering the damage of the stab wounds. His other wing hurt too much to move, the muscles pulling painfully. The Athosian had cut him deeply, several times.

Iskth was staring at him, long fingers twitching towards him, trying to move. She gasped softly, “You, you live. I ... die.”

The tight blossom of grief in his chest was unexpected and he whispered, surprising himself, “I fought to live.”

Spider soft, her fingers traced his jaw and the still seeping cuts there and Iskth sighed, “Perhaps there is hope, after all.” Her fingers dropped, covered in his red blood, leaving behind traces of her own silver blood on his face. Sheppard smiled at her, and she blinked back, long and slow.

Sheppard held her long after she died, and her blood was thick and sticky on his arms, and legs. The night was finally quiet but still light as the compound burned. There were cries of pain and sorrow from the Kurgens and Meroy, and the Flittas were hushed in grief. Sheppard looked towards the Stargate and saw a distant beacon of flames in the ruins of the Athosian City.

He watched as the handful of surviving slaves brought their wounded close to him, and for the first time in the months they had been on Athos, they say side by side. No one spoke, bar hushed words of comfort to the wounded. In silence, they watched the compound burn.

 

It was midday before the Genii arrived at the deGaren compound and the stench of death and blood was thick in the heat of the sun. Dawn had torn away the comfort of the dark and revealed a charnel house of death. Barely a handful of slaves lived, from the forty odd who had worked the orchard. The sole surviving Meroy keened loudly in the red dawn, his voice low and pained, wings outstretched as he sang. None of the injured Flitta survived the night.

The compound was a smoking ruin, and a solitary deGaren corpse lay in the open door, charred and brittle. Alas, the slaves were still trapped in the twisted pen. One of the Kurgens, looming over all the other slaves tried to force the fence now that it was unpowered but either he was too weak or the mesh too strong. They were stuck – left to starve unless rescued.

Several of the slaves looked at Sheppard for some sort of guidance. In the still, quiet hours of the morning, Sheppard hardly felt inclined to do anything bar sit and grieve. But there was too much to do, if they were to have an iota of hope.

As the sun climbed the sky and dark blue turned light, they gathered what dead they could reach, in one place, neat and orderly, laid out species by species. Sheppard used the knife to cut away everyone’s leashes and bindings. They tended to what hurts they could. And then with nothing else to do ... they waited – waited for the twisted metal to cool and perhaps try find a way out.

Sheppard sat near the mesh, looking out at the orchard, the sunlight thick over the trees, as the sun reached mid-morning. Behind him, the Kurgens were testing the mass of rumble from the ablution block, while the Meroy and Flittas covered the dead with the free rubble. Freedom was so close, the StarGate clearly visible in the sunshine, its silver surface a promise of home, and safety. Sheppard figured by late afternoon the fires smouldering within the rubble would be out and they could try dig for an exit.

At midday, the Genii arrived on foot and looked just about as done in as fighting all night could make you. Their uniforms were rumpled and streaked with smoke and blood. The officer with them, Laden, looked worn and exhausted, a nasty cut on his forehead. As they topped the rise and saw the ruin of the compound, their shocked expressions were no comfort at all. Sheppard stood as Laden approached, and the other slaves watched warily, backing away from the fence. Motioning for his men to check the area, Laden paused at the mesh and stared at the rows of bodies, some covered some not. He scanned the ruin of the cage, eyes tracking the twisted metal and broken building.

Sheppard figured he was no picture either, covered in blood, one wing tattered and bent. The fire that had destroyed the ablution block had also destroyed their access to water. If they didn’t find a way out, their death was a certainty. Laden opened his mouth to speak, but closed it, swallowing the words, struggling to find the right ones, perhaps. Sheppard though had no trouble and said evenly in Pegasii, “What now, Genii?”

Swallowing again, Laden looked around, as if the answer was going to appear out of thin air and sighed, “We... how many ... are there ... how many survivors?” Sheppard indicated at the slaves, eight including himself. “Just us.”

Laden sighed deeply and ran his hand over his hair, wincing as he touched the cut. He smelled of smoke and blood, or perhaps just everything did. He stared at the compound as he spoke, “We are not slavers, ah ...”

He trailed off, eyes blinking, overtired and exhausted brain trying to find the words for what he did not want to say. Uncaring, Sheppard grated out, his throat dry and filled with bitterness, “Then just let us go.”

Laden’s expression said it all. Sheppard didn’t even need to hear the words that followed. “We... we are here on a vital mission, we can’t afford anyone to know... I...” The man was tense, still with the emotion, as his men ranged out and searched the compound. Probably looking for any supplies or ammunition.

Anger burnt within him and Sheppard snarled, “We’re probably trapped – so if you don’t free us, kill us. Just don’t leave us to starve or die of thirst.” Laden stared at Sheppard like he was a walking horror and paled. “No, I ...”

“You either free us, or kill us. The only middle ground is keeping us,” Sheppard growled, pointing at Laden’s chest. The Genii sighed again looking torn. His men were poking around the compound and scattered equipment. They were all armed and skittish, scanning the trees as if expecting another attack.

“Look,” Laden started but Sheppard interrupted him, not looking at him, still staring at the Genii soldiers. He said as calmly as he could, “No, you look. We’d go to outlaw worlds where runway slaves hide out, deep in Carina. Not places where people talk about their past. Or chat about idiots poking around the ruins of Athos.”

“No, It’s too risky... we can’t afford,” Laden paused, trailing off mid-sentence. He was staring at Sheppard, who belatedly realised that his hands were fisted, white knuckled and that he was trembling. Trying to shake away the emotion, Sheppard barked a brittle laugh and said, “They don’t understand Pegasii and have no idea who you are or why you are here.”

Laden titled his head and narrowed his eyes, “You do.”

“Then kill me and let them go.”

Laden brushed away a buzzing insect, drawn by the blood and death, and stared at Sheppard with deep consideration. Sheppard did not stare back, and looked away, at the towering Spinas he never had to tend again. “Do you speak Ancient?” the Genii asked.

Surprised, he blinked slowly and nodded and ran his tongue over his dry lips. “I do.”

“Fluently?”

The change of subject felt odd, surreal even, but then the whole night and morning had had an edge of surrealness to it. Shrugging slightly, trying not to jostle his wing, Sheppard shook his head, “Not really.” He didn’t add the ryder that Helosian was practically Ancient so it didn’t matter, but Laden was looking very interested, like a man with an idea.

“Are you from Helios?”

Hearing that name hurt in an urgent way, the name of his home uttered by a stranger. Sheppard flicked his eyes at Laden, the only indication of his surprise but said nothing mind frozen as he fought to keep the slew of memories – and nightmares – at bay. Laden though stepped nearer, his face close to the mesh and hissed, “I think you are, but I would hear it from you.”

It wasn’t just the risk of being handed over to the Asurans that stopped Sheppard. It was the fear of what it would mean if they didn’t hand him over. Who else but the Asurans cared about a dead world? Besides, the simple act of hearing someone else say the name of his home had dried up his throat, his mouth full of ash. Heart pounding, Sheppard stared at Laden in silence but the Genii seemed to understand his quandary. “Tell you what. You stay with us, me, willingly – help us. Admit you are from Helios and I’ll let them go.”

Pegasii didn’t have a collective case for people who came from Helios.  Years ago, if they had met a Heliosan, they would have simply used the Persion word, or even the Heliosan word. Hell, years ago it wouldn’t have mattered as the Stargate logarithm for translation was working and people just simply understood each other.

It wasn’t really a choice, in the end. Seven lives for his and he was someone who was supposed to be dead and was already dead inside. His fellow slaves were watching the conversation nervously, aware that their fate rested with him, even if they didn’t understand the words. Iskth lay covered in tattered clothes, forever denied the arms of her mate.

Dropping his eyes, and staring at the deep cuts in his hands, Sheppard nodded, “Agreed. They go free. I stay.”

Laden nodded as well, but pressed the point, “And?”

“And I am Heliosan,” Sheppard answered, in Ancient.

 

The walk to the Stargate was long. It was especially long when you had wings and could have flown the distance in far less time. The Genii however were cautious and kept the slaves under armed guard throughout the march. The other slaves were buzzing with nervous excitement, worried that this promise of freedom would be a lie, or snatched away. Only Sheppard was bound, his hands tied in front of him, his position, his place with the Genii made abundantly clear.

The sun was low in the sky by the time they reached the Gate, and nerves were visible as the moment drew near. Under his breath, Sheppard urged the slaves to be calm, his Centarii and Carino low and hushed.  Freedom was far too priceless a gift for the slaves to ruin it, so they all remained still and pliant, trusting him and his words. The round circle was a promise too, and both the Genii and the slaves smiled in relief as they approached the Gate. Laden had agreed to let the slaves dial one address only. At Laden’s nod, a Kurgen quickly approached the address device and punched in a destination. The whir of chevrons and turning metal was music to their ears – the song of freedom. The soft blue light within the portal was an ocean of tomorrows - free.

The slaves did not wait for permission; they ran as one and slipped through the Gate into the wormhole – rushing past the Genii. Only one of the Flittas lingered for a moment, looking back at the men. It was the one who had pronounced Iskth dying and she flitted up to Sheppard, her wings a whir, touched his face and whispered, “Thank you.” She flew straight and true into the wormhole and was gone.

As the wormhole disengaged, several eyes turned to Sheppard, still covered in dried blood, and tattered clothes. He raised an eyebrow in question at Laden, who ordered everyone moving again, heading towards the Genii camp. Sheppard was still in the middle of them, surrounded with a careful distance between him and the nearest Genii.

Beneath his damaged wing, the long bloodied Athosian blade was securely tucked away, unseen.

 

Commander Kolya was less than pleased when they arrived; his face as they approached was a livid thundercloud. Late afternoon sunshine was covering their camp in shadows, the large Athosian sun overhead, colouring the trees in amber and ochre. He dismissed the men with a sharp word and ordered Laden and Sheppard into the building. It was surprisingly intact and had several rooms with a solid roof. The Genii had chosen buildings on the very outskirts of the city, ones that had apparently escaped the Asuran bombardment.

Sheppard trailed Laden who followed Kolya into a semi-private room and the Commander whirled on his second and snarled, “Explain, now!”

“Sir, the little slavers were dead. It was just the slaves left, “Laden started, but stopped, stepping backwards as Kolya poked him in the chest.  Face red, the scars on his cheeks stark, Kolya exclaimed, “Then you should have put them out of their misery and returned! Not jeopardise our entire mission.”

Feeling decidedly weary, not having slept at all during his vigil over Iskth, Sheppard lost interest in the argument and studied the small room, trying to lean unseen against one of the walls. The room had smooth, clean walls and narrow benches, with overturned instruments. It was a lab of some kind, covered in dust and decay. It was minimal in design, but the borders of the wall where it met the roof were carved with a twirling pattern reminiscent of leaves.

“He speaks Ancient!” Laden sounded angry, irked at being questioned perhaps. Sheppard didn’t really care. Now that they had stopped moving, and the fear of being trapped and dying of thirst was gone, he couldn’t quite summon up the energy to be afraid now.

Kolya snapped, “So do you, and that freak you insisted on bringing. Why  ...”

“Not like him, Kolya, he’s a damned...”

Whatever the hell he was, Sheppard was spared hearing when a red faced, breathless man rushed into the room and gasped, “I got it working. I need.... things ...those, now.” He was pointing at a couple of crates in the room and Kolya and Laden were swift to move.

Kolya barked, “McKay if you are lying ...”

“It’s my life on the line as well, sir,” the man replied meekly and all three left the room carrying a crate each, panic and need in their steps. Alone, Sheppard swayed fighting exhaustion, and blinked away a spell of light headedness. Blood loss, no water and no food were taking its toll and he was struggling to stay on his feet. His hands were aching fiercely, both from the ropes and the cuts. His head was pounding, overriding the pain from the cuts on his jaw and neck. His right wing was dull roar of pain. His hands had hurt too much to really tend those wounds.

Time seemed to slip away for a moment, lost in the dual pounding of his head and heart. Suddenly Kolya and Laden were back, both radiating less tension and more relief. “At least now we will have some time. The shield will keep those savages off us,” Kolya said and Laden nodded. “Pity we couldn’t get it working consistently last night.”

Ah, Sheppard thought to himself. A shield. No wonder they had survived the Athosian attack. Their survival had come with losses, judging by the newly dug graves he had seen on the way in, but they had fared far better than the deGarens. Both Genii paused as they spotted Sheppard still waiting for them and Kolya turned to Laden, snapping, “I am not convinced you were thinking clearly, Radim. You have potentially ruined the secrecy of this mission.”

“And I think the benefit outweighs the risk.”

Before Laden could continue, Kolya closed the distance to Sheppard and leaned into his space, face close. Locking eyes with him, Kolya sneered, “Do you know why the Genii do not keep slaves?” Not giving time for Sheppard to answer, even if he wished, Kolya continued, “Because anyone who fails in their duty and does not take their own life should be executed. Not kept alive in shame.”

Sheppard blinked slowly but it was Laden who sighed, “He is Heliosan, Kolya.” Frowning at the unfamiliar word but figuring it out, Kolya stared at Sheppard in shock. Unable to stand anymore, Sheppard feel to his knees and Kolya let him, staying Laden’s movement to help. Sinking to his haunches, Kolya tentatively touched Sheppard’s nearest wing and ran his fingers over the feathers.

“Helios. You sure?”

Laden nodded but Kolya didn’t see, instead he was staring at the twitch of the feathers away from his touch. Grasping the wing firmly, Kolya stretched it out, and Sheppard let him, watching through slitted eyes.  The wing was too big for Kolya to open it completely, but he was more interested in watching the reflex movement away from his strange touch. “Feels... alive.”

Abruptly, Kolya turned to Sheppard, his eyes boring into Sheppard’s and snapped, “How did you survive?”

Mouth dry as bone, Sheppard croaked, “Gou’ald.” And hoping the Genii knew the  gou’ald word, and what it meant finished with, “Sarcophagus.”

Kolya did, his eyes widening. “How?”

Not really wanting to go into detail, unwilling to broach the horror of those memories, Sheppard sighed, “I fell in battle and awoke inside a sarcophagus.”

Kolya stared, long and considering at him – probably weighing the benefits of keeping him alive, considering that the Asurans would definitely want him returned to them. He was about to speak when sudden understanding dawned on his face and he stood and turned to Laden with a bright smile, “The Ancient gene!”

Laden nodded and belatedly Sheppard put two and two together. It was something he had barely thought of over the years. The reason, or one of them, that the Asuran’s first act on their return to the galaxy had been genocide. Heliosans were Ancients, just genetically modified and separated by millennia of natural evolution. The Genii were truly asking for trouble if they were searching for ancient technology that needed the Ancient gene, so the need to secrecy was real. The same reason Athos had been attacked had drawn the Genii to the ruined world. A link to the Ancients and their technology.

Kolya nodded sharply suddenly smiling and said, “I do not like that you risked everything, Radim, but I agree. The benefit is ... tremendous.” Laden looked pleased, “Thank you, sir.”

Both men turned to regard their prize and Sheppard stared back – feigning disinterest.

“Get the freak to clean and feed him. We must check the watch.” Without a further glance Kolya left the room but Laden paused and smiled brightly at Sheppard, and then he was gone as well. Sheppard fell back against one of the crates and sighed.

It was several minutes before the slight, balding man returned and Sheppard had dozed off in the quiet. The man, McKay, was muttering under his breath and as he entered the room, he inserted a chip of tech into a port on the side of his head. He sighed, and stretched, shaking his hands and cricking his neck. More to himself than Sheppard, he muttered, “Morons. Fools. Imbeciles. Ungrateful cretins. Fetch the jai, McKay. Fix the shield, McKay. Clean the prisoner, McKay.”  
No doubt thinking himself safe, McKay was venting in a dialect from Magellan but as he approached Sheppard he switched to brusque Pegasii, “Come on, get up.”

Sheppard didn’t try all that hard to comply, the open wounds on his palms screaming at the briefest touch. Ineffectually trying to right himself, his arms shaking like leaves, Sheppard tried to figure out a way to stand that didn’t require using his hands and in the end, McKay had to help him up. Hauling Sheppard upright McKay wrinkled his nose in disgust and moaned, “You reek like a Dinerian swine. Come on.” Fortunately, the wash facilities were not too far and McKay propped Sheppard up against a wall in the blue, cool room and grabbed a hose. “Had to get this place working before I could sleep this morning, and now a dirty slave gets to try it out first... typical. Stand still.”

The water was warm, the pressure soft and the tile behind his head cool, and McKay was surprisingly gentle as he helped Sheppard wash away the blood and dirt. The water was instantly red and black, a river of grief pooling around his bare feet. Belatedly McKay untied Sheppard’s hands and helped him tear off the tatters of his clothes exposing the snug underclothes beneath. McKay snorted in Magellan as they worked, “Black hair, black wings, black underwear. Talk about being monochromatic.”

Sheppard was just able to keep the blade out of sight, still tucked under his hurt wing, and snug against his skin, secure in the edge of his briefs. As McKay tried to remove the tight, form fitting underwear comprising of snug shirt and briefs, Sheppard caught his hand and murmured in broken Magellan. “Symbiotic fabric. A second skin. Doesn’t come off.”

Fascinated, McKay peered closely at the sleeve nearest him and exclaimed, “Incredible. Does it heal with your skin?” Sheppard nodded and let the guy poke and prod the material. McKay was quite interesting himself and through hazy vision Sheppard studied him in return. He was either a C’roid or a M’gorg but judging by the number of tech implants, he was C’roid. The little world of C’nand in the Mageallan spiral was well known for its peculiar people who enhanced themselves with tech implants. Replaced limbs and organs with cybernetic versions. Accessed information from hard ports in their brains. Senses enhanced to high levels. Formidable warriors. Excellent scientists.

Sheppard though was fighting to stay awake, and barely heard McKay asking questions about his second skin. “Typical,” McKay muttered to himself and quickly finished up. Finally the water ran clear, but Sheppard kept loosing time, first he was drenched and then suddenly damp on the way to dry.

Sheppard blinked as he felt himself lay down on stiff but clean blankets, missing the walk back to the room. Opening his eyes, he saw McKay preparing an IV. “Don’t argue, you need it.” Sheppard didn’t and just closed him eyes, and let sleep claim him.

To be continued in part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Species mentioned and notes on the galaxy:  
> The Ancient Galaxy: massive spiral galaxy with seven spiral arms centered around a huge core. The names of the spiral arms are: Carina, Persion, Orion, Magellan, Omega, Centarii, and Pegasus.  
> This chapter takes place on: Athos, which is in the Pegasus arm of the galaxy.  
> The Ancients formulated a translation algorithm to assist the many varied species of the galaxy in communication. In recent years the Asurans have disrupted that algorithim and people no longer automatically understand one another  
> deGerans – a small, squat species from the Centarii spiral, with rough shell-like skin. Well known as traders, and slavers, they plant colonies of trees native to their home world, Spina Trees, on other worlds to harvest the fruit, bark and leaves which are used in medicines and food products around the galaxy . The deGarens are genderless and operate in trading consortiums other than families. Each consortium is led by a duHon, or Manager and can range from ten individuals to over a thousand. They view all other species as other customers or products.  
> Kurgens – an massive insectlike species from Carina. Loud and boisterous they make a great of noise and commotion but are generally a passive species. With no high technology or interstellar flight capacity their world is often raided by more developed species  
> Meroy – a batlike humanoid species from a forested planet in Centarii. On their homeworld they hardly, if ever, land and spend their lives on the wing or perched in trees. As a result, they are ungainly on land and ideally suited to the deGaren Spina byproduct trade.  
> Flittas – a delicate, small species from Carina, who hail from a low gravity world near the Core. Both genders are bald, with sticklike arms and four legs. Resembling a stick insect, they appear frail but are relatively strong despite the low gravity on their world. They pair off for life and are notorious breeders, one female being able to produce upward to 100 offspring in her lifetime. Males are excellent co-parents. Highly sociable and socially interlinked they do not thrive in isolation  
> Veesh – a birdlike species from Centarii, who are extremely xenophobic. As a result though, their technology is not on par with other worlds and deGaren slavers frequently target their colonies. Veesh refuse to use StarGates and bury all StarGates found on their colonies. Very little is known of their society and culture.  
> C’roid – a humanoid species from the Magellan spiral. Their derive their genetic ancestry from the Ancients but have developed into an unique species entirely dependent on artificial cybernetic implants. From birth, C’roid children receive implants that are used to enhance their natural abilities.


	3. Live unbruised, we are friends

*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*

It was the quiet that woke him, the steady, unbroken silence of an empty room filled with the absence of ambient noises other people exude simply by breathing, living, being. For months, nearly a year, the only moments of solitude he’d experienced had been when he was aloft in the Spina tree allocated to him for the day. Spina trees were hardly plants prone to quiet, their reflexive movements soothing after a fashion, but mostly very distracting. Distracting in terms of requiring the constant need to be alert for an errant branch idly trying to kill him.

Into silence, Sheppard awoke and awoke not to open skies tauntingly obscured by wire mesh, and the thready, light breathing of Flittas still asleep, or their quiet chatter, but to a blue-grey ceiling. What was more, he was free – from restrictive bindings at least. No ropes, no chains, no collar – nothing to fetter him in place. For the first time in a very long time, he’d been able to wrap himself in his wings like instinct and habit of a lifetime dictated. The soft press of his feathers against his skin, the enveloping sensation of warmth and safety was … unusual and blissfully wonderful. It was probably why his sleep had been truly dreamless, or at least why he did not remember any dreams.

Gingerly, Sheppard blinked, the rush of recent events flashing through his mind as his present situation caught up with him and momentarily he felt the sensation of Iskth’s blood on his hands, thick and wet. As if it were a dream, fading from his mind, he heard the crash of fire, tasted ash in the air, and the stench of burning flesh surrounding him. Screaming voices echoed in his ears, the sounds both an echo of the dead and the past. Unwilling to be drawn into recent memories, let alone far deeper, darker ones, Sheppard shook his head and grunted. Time to move.

Drawing in a deep breath, Sheppard sat up awkwardly, feeling the pull of his damaged wing, the cuts on his hands throbbing dully. His throat and jaw ached as well, and Sheppard tentatively touched his neck, wincing as he did. The wounds felt smooth, sealed by some sort of medical sealant applied with more enthusiasm than skill. His hands were bandaged with a light, hardy polymer, and the white material was spotted with fresh blood. Dimly he recalled a round, earnest face, forehead and cheeks alight with the glow internal tech implants. The little C’roid, McKay. Sheppard stared at his hands, blinking, trying to remember them being bandaged. There had been an IV…

Sheppard scanned his arm and spotted the slightly red mark where the intravenous machine had been attached. How had the C’roid known what to give him, what was safe for his species? Had he even thought to check? It bothered Sheppard more than a little that he’d been so out of it, so tired, that a stranger had tended to his wounds whilst he was unconscious. The very idea of being touched, manhandled without his knowing, without being able to stop it, made his stomach roil and writhe. Mouth suddenly dry, heart racing, Sheppard tried to push himself up, wanting, needing to be up, on his feet, facing the world.

He slept pressed up against a wall, several crates nearby. His bed had been a collection of blankets so old and worn that they were smooth to the touch. With his wings he had not needed any additional coverings, and the blankets were still softer and more comfortable than the hard ground of the slave pen. As he moved, he felt the sharp prick of the hidden knife, tucked securely under his good wing. There was a good chance that he'd be subjected to examination and scrutiny today, so rather than risk its discovery on his person, he awkwardly slipped it, his hands tender as he gripped the handle. He shoved the knife blade first behind one of the crates pressed against the wall, and made sure it wasn't visible. Hopefully no one would move the crate before he had a chance to retrieve it. A knife against gun-wielding captors had limited effectiveness, but between his wings and the element of surprise, it might be enough of an advantage in an escape attempt.

Once he was fighting fit, of course.

Struggling, Sheppard hissed at the pressure on his palms and the pain the effort caused, as well the weakness in his legs, which shook and trembled. Why was he so weak? His injuries were hardly life threatening and while the deGaren hadn’t exactly provided a feast every night, they had fed their slaves sufficient to ensure they would be able to work effectively. The wall was smooth, more of the slick blue tile he vaguely remembered, as warm water gushed over him last night. His good wing was pressed into the wall as he struggled to stand and Sheppard stiffened the feathers and pushed against the wall trying to generate a little momentum. It was awkward and it hurt, something pulling in his hands as he pushed himself up, but Sheppard made it to his feet, head swimming as he stood. All at once, it felt like too much too soon, and he cursed at the tremble in his legs.

Squinting, trying to right the world and not keel over, Sheppard spotted a solid grey crate nearby and staggered towards it, sitting down in an effort more resembling a collapse than a willing descent. Instantly he felt better, his heart rate calming to a mild panic, the swirl of colours spinning to a stop. He breathed in steadily for a while, and then a while longer, filling his lungs and exhaling, willing his body to comply, settle down. Finally, feeling calmer and steadier and rather than let his mind drift into the past or worry about the future, and the massive uncertain future that awaited him with the Genii, he turned to deal with a far more pressing concern. His injured wing.

The wing had bled periodically through the night it seemed judging by the crust of blood and seeping areas and the feathers around the open wound were stiff, sticky and matted with blood. Gingerly, Sheppard twisted to get a better look at it, opening the wing moderately, to both see better and check the extent of the damage. The blade had hit and glanced off a primary bone, ripping through the muscles overlaying the bone and plunging into a mass of auxiliary and covert feathers. Although it hurt, the Athosian’s strike had missed the major muscle running from his back, which was good news. The network of nerves and tendons that ran through his wings and feathers though were another story.

Grimacing more than a little at the sharp pain, Sheppard flexed his wing, and stretched out the feathers. Most of the feathers responded, extending to their full length, bar those closest to the wound. There was barely any response or movement from those and the trembling hurt from trying to make them move was urgent and demanding that he stop. Desisting, Sheppard pulled his wing over his arm, the primaries trailing over his legs, dusting the floor. Unfortunately the wound was in an awkward place, over his shoulder and just that shade of difficult to reach. The nearest oil gland was too close to the wound to press out oil comfortably, so Sheppard chose the gland on the edge of the wing now conveniently over his leg.

Hopefully the oil would heal the nerves as well as the feathers themselves, but either way, he was bound to lose a more than a few feathers and full sensation in the wing for a time. Gently, he worked the gland, generating a generous pull of oil and reached back to clean off the blood and oil the open slice. The natural oil had antiseptic, healing properties, designed to keep the feathers healthy and clean, but combined with his blood, the oil should assist with keeping the injury clean and promote healing. Sheppard slowly worked oil into the top of the wound, biting his lip. Fingers bloody, tense against the pain, he tried to settle into a rhythmic, steady motion letting the controlled hurt settle his nerves and soothe his mind in its own way.

The cut wasn’t overly large but it dipped in deep at the top and tapered off as the blade had slid out. No matter its length, Sheppard had to be thorough and oil its entire length. Who the splice knew what had been on the Athosian’s knife. The sooner he treated the damage, the better his chances of a full recovery. The last thing he needed was an infection and given it’d been nearly a full solar day since the attack, there had been plenty of time for bacteria to settle into the gash. Relentlessly, he pressed on, despite the undercurrent of exhaustion tugging at him, his vision blurring occasionally. He’d barely plumbed the depths of the deep incision, when his feathers started thinning and hardening in response to the constant pain. Instinct was priming his feathers for defence and preventing further hurt, and Sheppard had a consciously try to relax, and let the feathers relax.

It wasn’t really working.

He’d barely reached mid-way when his hand started trembling so badly with the effort of working the oil that he sliced his thumb on a sharp, razor edge feather. It felt like the whole wing was throbbing and screaming with pain – his entire side aching with reflexive sympathetic agony. When he cut himself again on a defiantly sharp feather, Sheppard dropped his hand, and leant forward, taking a break, hand shaking in concert with his pounding heart. A fine sheen of sweat broke out on his skin and face, and a few of his feathers spasmed uncontrollably, sharpening and flexing on their own. In the continued silence, Sheppard took in a deep shaky breath and listened, trying to calm the hurt. The building was quiet, but with no windows in the room it was impossible to tell if it was night or day outside. However, as it was quiet, either the Athosians had not yet attacked, or had been fended off and it was another day. No voices outside, no footsteps, no sound of movement at all.

Gingerly, slowly, his wing relaxed, the feathers plumping and filling out as the pain dropped from screaming to whimpering level. The tremble in his hands diminished moderately, and Sheppard looked up at the ceiling, still listening for a clue as to the goings on outside.

The bottom of the bleeding cut needed to be seen to but it was a little too far out of reach for comfort and Sheppard sighed, electing to rest a little longer, regain some strength, stop all of the trembling in his hands before trying again. He glanced around the room, taking in the contents, and dimensions. The room was fairly cluttered, mostly with crates and boxes which did not look Athosian. Grey and uniform, they were most likely Genii products, which meant the Genii were aiming to settle in for awhile, which was interesting in and of itself. This expedition was not a brief effort, and the Genii had packed enough equipment not to need going through a wormhole to resupply themselves.

Sheppard’s stomach growled, a deep rumble of hunger and he glanced down at his torso, wondering just when his next meal might be. His stomach rumbled again and automatically he covered his stomach, feeling the muscles ripple in sympathy. The cold, wet touch of bloody bandage was a surprise and Sheppard pulled his hand away, and stared at the polymer covered in blood and oil. For a split second he thought his stomach was sliced open, and the hunger was the pain of evisceration, but the reality sunk in, flooded back as he stared at the white bandage soaked in oil, turning pink and red at the edges. There was a growing stripe of red across the middle, the cuts on his hand were bleeding again in earnest.

“Great,” he sighed. Was he feeling so peculiar and weak from blood loss? Had he lost so much? It didn’t seem possible, but perhaps he had bled more than he realised while he slept.

As if summoned by his hunger and the realisation that he’d need to change the bandage, the door flew open and a maelstrom in the form of McKay entered the room, burdened with boxes and a heavy scowl. His entrance was accompanied by a burst of noise from outside, a raucous babble of male voices and activity. The cacophony of life and people running about with tasks and errands sounded so alien after the profound silence.

“Good you’re awake,” McKay growled, stomping into the room, boots scuffed and dusty. He tossed the boxes onto a table with haphazard care and exclaimed dramatically, “Some of us have been working for a second night straight trying to keep everyone alive while others passed out in the shower.” Looking around the room, face crumpled with some emotion, McKay headed for a container, threw the lid open and began rummaging inside, “There should be some dehydrated rations in here, our sole sustenance for the duration of our delightful sojourn here.” His accent was sharp and tonal, his Magellan more nasal than the standard Asgardian accent. Sheppard found it a tad grating on the ear.

Belatedly and slowly the door swung closed on its own accord, cutting off the noise from outside, plunging the room into silence again. Well, not complete silence. Bemused, Sheppard watched McKay curse and search the container, taking out ration bars, staring at them and then dismissing the unwanted ones. A brief flare of interface light as his implants worked illuminated the dull surface of the container as McKay found what he was looking for. Opening his chosen meal with his teeth, McKay tossed several random dehy ration bars at Sheppard, their packaging flashing in the artificial lighting. Sheppard let them fall, a cascade of three, onto the floor, each rolling over with momentum until one reached his primary feathers. The toss had been too short for him to catch comfortably and he was suddenly awkward about letting the C’roid see his bloody hands, exposing a weakness. McKay stared at the fallen bars and then Sheppard, his face a picture of irate confusion.

“Nice catch. Hurry up and eat, we’ve got work to do.”

Sheppard quirked an eyebrow and McKay scowled back at him, clearly waiting for his orders to be obeyed. Sheppard calmly stared back. McKay opened his mouth, no doubt to snap an order but seemed to think better of it, and whirled around to open another one of the boxes with more force than required. Sheppard glanced down at the ration bars, mouth watering. He was hungry enough to eat a crate of the things but the effort to bend down and grab one seemed enormous and at the rate that his head was spinning just sitting, bending down might keel him right over. If the Genii expected him to work, his priority was tending to his injury otherwise he risked permanent damage and limiting his ability to fly. There was no way he was ruining his chance to fly free someday. The food could wait for now.

The wound, especially the untreated part, was a distant throb now, hopefully one that he could handle without passing out or becoming too lightheaded, so ignoring McKay, Sheppard twisted painfully, pulled his wing closer and peered at the untreated part of the angry injury. The rest of the wound was numb, happily coated in oil and healing, covered beneath blood soaked feathers.

Grimacing, Sheppard coated his fingers and reached back towards the wound, the muscles in his arms burning with the stretch, the muscles over his ribs tight with the effort. The initial touch of the oil stung but it soon faded and the hurt became bearable, the oil soaking into the muscle and feathers. Very conscious of the angry C’roid in the room, who was doing a poor job of not looking at him, Sheppard traced the length of the injury awkwardly, trying to determine the end point, frowning as it stretched further than he initially thought. Cursing under his breath and lifting his wing higher, Sheppard hoped it hadn’t reached his primaries and the network of thin, durable sinews that controlled those key feathers. The primaries had responded during the reflex test earlier but if the nerves or sinews were damaged…

“What the circuit are you doing?”

Startled, both by the voice and sudden nearness of McKay, Sheppard hissed and dropped his wing, straightening to meet McKay, primed to defend himself if needed. It’d be a struggle to stand in time if there was going to be a fight, but if need be, he could kick McKay’s legs out from under him. On the ground, he at least had a chance. The C’roid was a step away, eyes darting over Sheppard, all sorts of relays lighting up under his skin, hands clutching a crystal tuner. His curiosity was readily apparent, as he was barely restraining himself from closing the distance between them, his eyes fixed on the wing. Without giving Sheppard a chance to respond, he blurted out, “At first I thought you were preening or something, but… may I?”

Sheppard hesitated. He really didn't want McKay any nearer than he already was, let alone fondling his wing, but what Sheppard 'wanted' hadn't mattered in years, so he nodded stiffly. McKay immediately closed the distance and reached out to touch the oil gland that was still seeping, gathering a large drop of oil on his finger. McKay was close enough that Sheppard could see the cybernetic lenses in his eyes rotate and whirl. Tensely he watched McKay stand there, examining the oil, muttering to himself. Sheppard's stomach growled.

Looking up, McKay winced and growled back, "Eat something, for Surge's sake."

Without really taking a breath, he continued, "It's incredible. Your rather dim looking body fluid is rife with nanites, all I assume designed to protect the feathers and promote cellular growth and regeneration. The design is intricately beautiful, practically efficient and circuit blowing in its simplicity. Multipurpose, with singular protocols dependent on environmental factors. I'd love to see the specs of…."

McKay trailed off, and Sheppard sunk a little lower in his slouch, exhaustion and hunger washing over him. The C'roid frowned and muttered more to himself than Sheppard, "Why the factor are half the cells non-responsive and alternating start cycles? That must be…."

Trailing off again, interrupting himself, McKay looked up at Sheppard, his lenses rotating like windmills and he demanded, "Give me your hand!"

Again, somewhat numbly and automatically, Sheppard obeyed and yielded his blood soaked hand to the being, who instantly exclaimed, "Oh, fantastic! You've opened up those cuts as well!" Rather than tend to the wound, McKay pulled Sheppard's hand closer, eyes flashing again, and in response, Sheppard turned on his seat, feathers trailing in the dust and dirt, and faced McKay. The C'roid’s implants in his face, arms and neck were all flashing as he processed information, scanning Sheppard’s hand, or most likely the cut. Idly, Sheppard wondered if the placement of the implants and choice of colours was a practical one, or aesthetic – all part of how C'roids expressed their individuality. Or did everyone pretty much have the same placement?

"Surge's Terminal, I shouldn't have given you that fluid replacement. By the Architect, why don't you have a medical response chip like every other sane being in the galaxy?" McKay dropped his hand like it burned him and scuttled off to one of the crates and began frantically searching through medical supplies. "What moronic race doesn't chip their infants with universal treatment notifications? Big, overgrown avian morons, that's who!"

With a shout of success, McKay whirled back with a hypo-spray in his hand and without asking, jabbed it against Sheppard's arm and triggered it. The application device hurt as it pumped the medication in and McKay used it twice more, once near his heart and the other on his abdomen. Stunned, Sheppard watched him step back, a self-satisfied expression on his face, and he couldn't help saying, "What moron doesn't run a basic species screen before possibly killing me with kindness?" While he spoke, McKay snatched up Sheppard's hand and briskly ripped off the bandages, sterilised the cut and slapped on a transparent bandage, which congealed on and around the wound, sealing it.

Colouring red and grabbing his other hand, McKay retorted, "Oh, please! You were passed out and I needed to get back and make sure those screaming lunatics weren't about to smash through our defences again. You should be grateful that I didn't just slap on a stimpack and run for it." McKay huffed, his face colouring further, interface lights whirling with indignation. Second hand done, he stepped back and glared at Sheppard, as if daring him to find fault with his actions.

Acknowledging the truth of the statement, Sheppard waved his acceptance of the non-apology. The effects of the hypo-spray were not immediate, but he was feeling less light-headed already, his heart no longer pounding in his chest, like he was trying to fly the Circuit. McKay drew near again, his hands inching closer to Sheppard's wing. "Do you? Do you need some, ah … help?" His voice was less abrasive and he was clearly intrigued by Sheppard's wings. No doubt he wanted to run a couple dozen scans while he 'assisted'. Sheppard though wasn't above a bit of teasing of his own.

Peering at the shorter being with a frown, Sheppard rubbed his forehead, willing the headache to disperse faster and said, "Why are you fidgeting like that? You treated the cuts on my hands easily enough. Did you not see the wound on my wing? If you missed it, its no big…"

Cutting him off sharply, McKay exclaimed, "How in the name of Surge am I supposed to see dark congealed blood on black matted, dirt encrusted feathers, huh? Yes, I missed it. Can I help you or not?" Demanding, petulant and a little bit hurt.

Reluctantly, Sheppard nodded. The C'roid had cleaned and treated his other wounds competently enough, bar giving him the wrong fluid replacement, which in all honesty would have worked through his system eventually and he would have been fine. Treating the bottom half of the injury to the wing was going to be awkward and painful, and frankly Sheppard didn’t really feel up to yet. The quicker it was done, the better – and sooner it could start healing.

"Fine. Just press the gland firmly, it doesn't hurt. You don't need a lot of oil, and don't worry about getting blood in the mix. Just no dirt or crud." Sheppard caught McKay's gaze and added, "Cover any exposed flesh or broken feathers with oil, be thorough, ok?"

"Fine. Sure. No problem. I'll just coat myself in your disgusting bio-fluids and have at it. Terrific. Love my work. Real pleasure." In contradiction to his expressed disgust, McKay swiftly but gently opened up the wing, Sheppard wincing slightly at the movement, but it was easier to see the injury with the entire length out-stretched. "Hmmmm," McKay muttered, exploring the wound. "It tapers off into barely a scratch. There is not much more to do." His visible circuity was awhirl with lights and motion, as he scanned Sheppard's wing, both visually and through his fingers. Suprisingly, McKay's touch was professionally certain, and gentle, like he'd been handling additional appendages all his life.

Sheppard half expected the pain to be worse with the anticipation of someone else touching the injury, but McKay kept a running commentary going so much so that he barely noticed when McKay started coating the cut and even when the C'roid touched a particularly tender part, it didn't seem to hurt nearly as badly as when he was treating himself. Sheppard didn't particularly want to think about why that was. "Nurse maid to bird men and servant to imbeciles, my parents would be so delighted at the station to which I have reached. Granted, they probably expected me to either reach great political heights or end up in the sphincter end of the galaxy. Nothing middling about Rodney McKay." McKay's voice was muted, the grumbles half-hearted. The majority of his processing capacity was probably taken up with all the data he was gathering.

"McKay doesn't sound like a typical C'roid name," Sheppard sighed, leaning in a little into the steady motion of McKay's entirely thorough ministrations.

"Oh, you're an expert on the etymological roots of C'roid names now? Typical.” Without taking a breath or pause, McKay rambled on, gently covering more feathers with oil. “I happen to hail from a founding family who chose to keep the ancestral Tauri name during the hay days of the new colony when all and sundry were embracing cyborg enhancements and rejecting the old 'biologic-centric' legacies. My family put greater stock in the heritage of our ancestors and we kept the name. Alas for my small twig of the family, we fell into disfavour during the Great Collective and barely survived the Genome Purge, but here I am, the latest scion of a family line barely any C'roid worth their capacitor acknowledges. But I am sure you knew that already, what with being an expert, and all."

Sheppard barely murmured a reply, lulled into a stupor by the deft carding of his feathers, as McKay systematically and extremely thoroughly oiled the feathers around the wound. He'd finished the bottom section and was now checking the part Sheppard had tended, thoroughly ensuring no part of the injury was untreated. The feathers, though alive and flexible, had limited nerve connections – just enough to receive neurological instructions to flex, harden and plump, as needed. Iskth may have been fascinated with his wings, and happily helped with his grooming each night, but her fingers were stick thin, sharp little wires in comparison to McKay’s thicker, fleshier appendages. It felt wonderful, even with the underlying ache of torn muscles and broken blood vessels. The little ache of hurt was unavoidable, but Sheppard didn't care.

"Alight, all done. Can we go now? How are you feeling?" McKay's voice was loud and sharp, an undertone of irritation buried in the words.

Startled slightly, breaking from the stupor of being groomed, Sheppard blinked and straightened, and said quietly, "Thank you. I appreciate your help." He hoped he covered the look of relief and relaxation on his face, but it was doubtful McKay had missed it.

McKay waved the thanks aside and sat down next to Sheppard with a grunt. "Don't expect me fetch and carry for you, or anything. That was a once off effort in order to get you operational and functional. I am not carrying any more of the load than I need to."

Chuffing a bare, tiny laugh, Sheppard reached down and snagged one of the de-hy bars, and ripped open its flimsy wrapping. It tasted as expected, over-processed and manufactured, but it did the job of partially filling the gaping hole that was his stomach. Whatever counter-agent he’d been given was working, and Sheppard was feeling more settled, less like he was going to collapse. McKay opened a de-hy as well and quietly they sat together, eating one, and then three more dry, tasteless and comfortless bars, which nonetheless left them feeling full. Fortunately, the palsy dissipated rapidly, notably as he ate, and Sheppard felt more stable, capable with each passing moment. With the remains of the fourth and last bar gone, Sheppard tilted his head to catch McKay's gaze and cocked an eyebrow of query.

McKay sighed and muttered, "Enough idling I suppose." He stood with a groan and muttered something about high tech equipment being used for manual labour. "Come on." He extended his hand to Sheppard, who took it gratefully, the cuts on his palm tinging slightly.

"I don't suppose you have any spare clothes I could use?" he asked, and McKay rolled his eyes dramatically. "Grunt, nurse maid, groomer and now tailor. Great! I'm pretty sure I'll have a complete service record of menial chores by the end of this ordeal. I'm certainly validating all those credits spent on education and higher functioning upgrades, aren't I!"

Still grumbling, McKay stood and rooted around an open crate before tossing a pair of grey trousers at Sheppard, who snatched it out of the air before it hit his head. From another crate McKay extracted a shirt, and auto-belt and Sheppard quickly caught those as they were tossed in his direction. Unconcerned, McKay’s voice echoed off the crate his head was currently buried in as he said, “Do you need knife or slicer for your…”

The sound of clothe ripping drew McKay’s attention and he looked up in time to watch Sheppard slip his thinned, hardened wings through two slits in the back of shirt, before pulling his arms through the shirt. The grey shirt was too big and pooled around his waist, and there was a lot of fabric to tuck in and secure both trousers and shirt with the belt. It was a bit awkward because his hands felt so stiff and puffy, but after a few attempts, he got everything tucked away. Satisfied, Sheppard nodded at McKay who was impatiently hovering near the door. “Finally! Ok. Grab that, no the other one, and that, and follow me.”

Gingerly picking up the two boxes McKay had indicated, Sheppard followed him out through the open door and into the noisy corridors of the temporary Genii base. Despite a less fraught night, the Genii were still bustling about securing the series of ruined buildings that they had claimed in the Athosian city. Hard on McKay’s heels, Sheppard dodged and tried not to knock over officious Genii who refused to move out of his path. He recognised a few faces from the group who had travelled to the deGaren camp yesterday, but none of the Genii met his eyes. He caught a few wary, covert glances at his wings, but on the whole, every Genii he passed looked right through him and McKay. There were a lot of tired, wane faces in the mix of people, bruised eyes and heavy expressions. Not a happy bunch of people.

Still rather uncertain as what McKay’s role at the Genii camp was and what they expected from him, Sheppard silently followed the C’roid who expertly threaded his way past oblivious individuals. Fortunately the boxes weren't too heavy and the de-hy rations did the job of pushing his weakness aside. The deGarens certainly had ensured that their slaves had enough food to function effectively, but they had kept the slaves on the hungry side, enough to make the threat of no food an unappealing consequence. Hunger and weakness were familiar companions for Sheppard by now.

McKay led the way to the perimeter and there he opened one of the boxes Sheppard held and started handing out rations to the Genii on duty. Together, they made their way throughout the various rooms, stepping over rubble and broken walls. Whether the damage was from the original Asuran attack on Athos, or from the more recent attacks by the mad Athosians was a little difficult to tell. The second box Sheppard carried and the one McKay was totting around held medical packs for the treatment of burns and various small injuries. With deadpan efficiency, McKay dispensed rations and medi-packs to whoever crossed their path. They were received gratefully but no actual words of thanks were said. On their circuit, the occasional Genii handed mal-functioning projectile weapons, scanners, lights and communicators to McKay, with terse instructions to fix the devices even as they ripped open their rations.

As Sheppard’s boxes grew emptier of rations and supplies, they filled with miscellaneous failed equipment. As the pile grew, McKay muttered in Magellan under his breath. “Ludite-idiots! Their tech is so backward it breaks as it comes off the assembly line. I swear that’s the third time I’ve fixed his communicator!” The litany continued right up until McKay reached the central room of the large main building. In total Sheppard reckoned there were about 100 Genii, and given their losses on the first night, an entire Company had travelled through the Gate to Athos. Rather than a series of separate buildings as he had originally thought, the ruin they had claimed as a base was one large irregularly shaped building, badly damaged from an aerial bombardment. The centre of the building though was unscathed, and the large room they now entered was at the very heart of the building. He didn't still have a clear mental map of the camp, but if he needed to run, he was certain he'd get out. If opportunity arose.

The room was roofed by the massive dome, which had large cracks running down its length, a few spears of sunlight breaching the stone. This room was quieter than the rest of the camp, probably because it was the reason the Genii were on Athos. Laden Radim and three Genii, who were probably some sort of scientist or technician, were huddled around a large machine in the middle of the room. As he followed McKay to a work bench on the other side of the room, Sheppard studied the machine. It was tall and bulbous with several interfaces and screens. Its purpose however was not readily apparent. The leader, Koyla, was not in sight, and Sheppard felt his feathers relax a little. The man made his skin crawl. Radim barely noted their entrance, as he was heavily engaged in a debate with the others. The Genii dialect of Pegasii was quick and difficult to follow, but they were arguing about the best way to interface their tech with the Athosian device.

McKay shot a derisive look in their direction when he was certain no one was looking. Grumbling still, he dumped the various broken items on the work bench and whirled on Sheppard. Softly, his voice pitched to carry no further than Sheppard and laced with annoyance, he growled, “I have no blinking idea what level of tech skill you have but by the Circuit, you are going to help me surging fix these things, ok?” Resisting the urge to smile, Sheppard nodded and said quietly back, “Cool your drafts, dude. You are likely to blow a connection or something.” McKay sniffed and sat down on the only stool and snapped, “Shut up and get to work.”

The various diagnostic tools and repair kits on the bench were galaxy standard, with a few C’roid and Genii specific tools in the mix. Sheppard awkwardly picked up a communicator and began poking the casing to expose the circuitry. McKay was already bent over a scanner, his interfaces whirling with agitation and emotion. The communicator was clunky and had none of the sophistication of the communication devices Sheppard was used to. Even the Gou’ald, whose tech was notoriously antiquated, had superior devices. Genii-tech was decidedly poor standard, and Sheppard, who was far from any sort of technician, could easily see the issue with the device. Carefully he opened the casing and used one of the repair kits to re-secure the wiring and circuit boards. At first his hands ached at the motion and need to grip small tools, but he soon grew used to the hurt. As he connected the last section, it gave a loud squawk and then a babble of voices streamed from the tiny speaker. Ignoring McKay’s hot angry look, Sheppard turned the thing off and replaced the casing. He barely noticed the traces of blood under the transparent bandage.

Steadily Sheppard worked through the communicators and fixed all but one, as the loose casing and circuity was the common factor. Utterly bemused at the shoddy workmanship, he murmured to himself, “Solar-winds, did they buy these from a Jearn farmer? Or did a Ghent salesbeast offload sub-standard drak to idiots who didn’t know any better?” His head was pounding a little, but his wing was no longer aching, in fact it was a happily numb, and he kinda wished his neck and hands were.

McKay snorted and replied quietly, “Oh no, it’s better than that. It’s homemade. Highest quality, top notch Genii products.” The C’roid was struggling with a second scanner, which kept shocking him as he tried to diagnose which circuit or chip was faulty. He shot Sheppard a look of irate amusement and Sheppard chuckled. The last communicator he left for McKay and he turned to the two hand-held lights. “Well, at least it’s not Bearj tech. That stuff only works every second solar year.”

His eyes lit up, as well as his interfaces, and McKay laughed softly, “And only if there is a comet overhead! My lab once bought a Bearj compressor just for the challenge of seeing if we could get it to work. Three years we tinkered on it, between other projects and the closest we got was one full compressor cycle and then it started smoking.”

McKay proceeded to tell him about several more horrendous tech stories, mostly involving himself in a starring role, but the stories were funny. The lights were a quick fix, and while McKay was regaling him with an unlikely story about a malfunctioning hydro-collider and inter-dimensional space, he turned to the projectile weapons and began stripping them down. The steady routine of stripping and cleaning a weapon, even if it was an unusual, poorly made rifle, settled the remainder of Sheppard’s nerves. The familiar motions hurt his hands less, and he barely noticed them, or his neck. While he had no real idea what the Genii wanted with him, and the future was utterly uncertain, today was better than yesterday. Better to be surrounded by tech in need of fixing than death, blood and the smell of burnt flesh. His situation had completely changed in the space of two days, but it was hardly first or last time there would be an abrupt change in circumstance. Life as a slave was hardly filled with certainty.

Mid-way through the morning, McKay tossed him two de-hy bars mid-speech and barely paused in regaling Sheppard about a horror story involving a re-animated jump-drive which was determined to plot nav courses through the galaxy core. The practically non-stop verbal commentary and free-flow story telling from McKay was occasionally interspersed by a ‘hmm?’, ‘oh really?’ and ‘right’ from Sheppard. He finished the rifles and handguns long before McKay gave up on the last scanner. For a good while, he leant against a mottled blue-grey wall and listened to his companion ramble on, jumping from random topic to random topic, mostly themed around technology in the Galaxy. He focused intently on the little being, watching him work, laughing quietly when needed.

In his peripheral vision, Sheppard kept track of the Genii in the room, subtly watching their movements. Radim and his men were clustered around the central device, no doubt trying to interface their technology with the Athosian device. As McKay paused, a sure sign of a subject jump, Sheppard quietly asked, voice pitched low enough that only McKay's audio receptors would pick it up, "Any particular reason the Genii have such low grade tech?"

Without looking up from the last scanner he was working on, McKay snorted as quietly, "Other than because they are misogynist bastards, well, yes." Sheppard kept his wings furled flat on his back, the easiest, most natural resting position he could manage with the injury, and watched McKay chase the circuitry trying to figure out where the fault was. Happily multitasking, his mouth on auto, McKay continued, "They have the misfortune of living on a planet within the Wraith farming range. Surge help them, they probably are a Wraith Farm World for all intents and purposes. The local hive makes sure that any technological advances are short lived and any person with the brains to actually think is eaten. Keep the populace nice and stupid. And mean. And belligerent."

Sheppard frowned slightly and then smoothed that expression away with his hand before anyone noticed. "The Genii use the two hundred year cycle of Wraith hibernation to catch up what tech they lost, so that hopefully they can stop the next cycle of feeding. Hence, we are here raiding dead worlds for possible technological advancement they don't have the time to figure out themselves. Wonderful species the Wraith. Why didn't you lot wipe them out again?"

Emotion roiled through Sheppard which he firmly quashed and he replied with a deadpan voice, "Genocide isn't something you contemplate easily. Predators or not, the Wraith deserve to live just as much as the next species."

McKay made a noise of derision, his circuits flaring red and blue and he shook his head as if despairing of the idiocy of some people. "They eat sentient beings, nerf! It should have been a 'change your diet or die' ultimatum. Not, 'stay in your sector of space and eat only those people!' Stars and circuits!" The little C'roid hissed and shook his fingers. Caught up in his tirade he'd burnt himself with the soldering tool and he shot a glare at Sheppard, clearly blaming him for the injury. "Why are you just standing there? We've got work to do!"

He waved at the bench of completed repairs and belatedly noticed that his was the last item. "Oh. Good. Uhm…."

"C'roid! Come here."

Radim's voice was loud and McKay's head snapped up in response. Sheppard saw him quickly scan the room and bench, no doubt checking if he had neglected anything important, before responding in a dull, obedient voice. "Coming, sir."

"Bring the Helosian."

Silently, Sheppard followed McKay, keeping his wings small and flat on his back. His bare feet crunched the dust and gravel that covered the floor, the design of the smooth tiles lost in the debris. The room had a feel of a library, a learning centre, dotted with annexures and ruined workstations. All of the screens in the room were shattered, and there was still a faint scent of burnt electronics in the air as he passed a few stations.

Radim, his face grim and unhappy, impatiently waved them over and McKay's hesitation was fairly visible as he approached. "Sir?"

Gone was the verbose, argumentative person and a seemingly quiet and biddable one awaited further instruction. "The interface isn't working! Koyla will not be pleased, at all!" Radim pointed at an odd looking contraption that looked incredibly makeshift and cobbled together. Three different pieces of tech were connected through a series of cables and wires and that mess was attached to the open interface of the large Athosian computer. One of Radim's men was holding a screen, and fruitlessly poking it, trying to access the Athosian system. "All I can see are menus and old searches. No actual data," he grumbled.

McKay barely even scanned the tech and replied stiffly, flatly, "As I mentioned previously, sir. The converter will work but first we need to ascertain if the Ancient database is functional and more importantly, powered."

Radim rolled his eyes, his frown deepening. "I know that! The lights are on, aren't they?" True enough there were a variety of lights on the large machine, scattered all over its bulbous structure, and the majority were illuminated or flashing. Someone, probably McKay, had jury-rigged a powerbase into the thing given that the city's power grid was gone, and the only illumination the Genii had in the ruin was from whatever sources they had brought with them.

Stepping closer to the machine, McKay hummed to himself and said quietly, "As far as I can tell, sir, the outer structure was how the Athosians accessed the Ancient Database. All of these processors here are used to decode, translate and encode the ancient data into Athosian." McKay ran his hand over one of the bulbs, its surface marked with dust and tiny degradations. "The actual ancient database itself is not powered. You can see over here…"

The collected Genii bent and followed McKay's directions as he indicated the hidden ancient artefact obscured by the bulkier, more organic looking Athosian tech. The ancient device was barely visible from where Sheppard was standing, but its more crystalline structure was dark and silent. Quite reasonably, Radim asked, "How can you tell, droid? Because it’s not lit up or flashing?"

Still hunched over, peering at the outer casing of the database, McKay poked it with a finger, and a whole map of cybernetic implants in that finger lit up, turning his hand into an array of pulsing lines of light. "My sensors can pick up its failure to initialise, but yes, for the un-enhanced, it would be the absence of a glow. It would probably simply look lighter in colour, warmer when powered and functional."

"You could have told us earlier, 'droid!" one of the Genni exclaimed, clearly upset, his voice dark and angry. Radim followed that with a softer, but still furious, "I thought I told you to fix this last night so we could start working this morning. We have limited time here, C'roid."

Sheppard may have only known the shorter C'roid for less than a day, but after a full morning in close proximity, he was fairly certain that the reply he wanted to give was short, sarcastic and caustic. Instead though, McKay straightened and humbly explained, "I was attempting to do just that when you called me away last night to fix the protective barriers. Sir."

The 'and save your ungrateful lives' was unspoken but the tightening on his shoulders and hard brittle eyes carried that non-verbal rejoinder. Oblivious, or uncaring, Radim poked McKay in the chest sharply and said, "Then you should have fixed it before sleeping! Fix it, now!"

There was a long beat of silence, and Sheppard wondered if McKay was going to argue or let loose a tirade of indignant vitriol but he nodded sharply and replied, "Yes, of course. At once."

He did not apologise and it seemed the Genii did not expect one, as the other three turned and left, dismissing him already. The trio of scientists, assuming that's what they were, drew back to the opposite side of the room from McKay's work bench and started tinkering with another Athosian device, this one much smaller, still bulbous but separate from the larger object of their mission. Radim pointed at Sheppard, and barked, "You, follow me." Glaring at McKay, he growled, "You have an hour, C'roid."

Tempted to shoot McKay a look of sympathy, Sheppard calmly followed Radim, and very carefully did not look at the C'roid at all. In his peripheral vision he noted McKay's expressionless face as he picked up a few tools and started diagnosing the problem. Whatever anger he had nearly shown before was now invisible. He obediently got to work. Sheppard obediently followed Laden, curiosity vying with nerves.

Radim had his own work bench, a learning annex he’d seconded against the far wall. Considering the Genii had arrived two days ago, they had set up their camp quickly and efficiently. No matter how much McKay had grumbled about menial labour, the little C’roid could not have done it all himself. The Genii were a smooth, organised, tightly run unit. Radim’s bench (unlike McKay’s) was neatly ordered and organised, and could be packed up very quickly. He pointed at a stool near the bench and snapped, “Sit. Take your shirt off.”

Caught off guard, Sheppard paused mid-step but continued swiftly and silently sat, unbuttoning his shirt as he did so. He tried to ignore how his heart started pounding and he willed himself to calm down. Instinctively, he thinned his feathers, making his wings sharp and smooth and the shirt slipped off his back without a snag. He noted Laden watching him covertly as he fussed with a container on the bench, and his chest tightened involuntary. Hoping that none of his nerves showed, he sat quietly, patiently, unconcerned on the surface.

From the container, Radim took out several medical scanning sensors and a reader, all of which looked well used but in good condition – and not Genii-made. Initialising the largest scanner, he directed it at Sheppard and studied the read out as it did whatever he asked it to do. Sheppard remained utterly still. Laden made no sound, his eyes darting over the screen as information scrolled up. He placed small sensors on Sheppard’s temple, throat, over his heart and lungs, chest and abdomen, the metal cool on his skin and barely noticed on his second skin. Radim continued to run a series of scans, his gaze fixed on the screen, illuminated by its glow. Incrementally, Sheppard felt his heart slow and calm down, and he hoped whatever scan Radim was running wasn’t picking that up.

Across the room, McKay was buzzing around the Athosian interface, his hands full of a variety of tools and he was very studiously not looking at Radim. “Hold this.” Laden’s voice startled Sheppard slightly but he stared at the small boxy device Radim was holding out to him. “What is it?” His voice was rough, dry and he resisted the urge to clear his throat. “A life signs detector, I think. Take it!” Laden sounded irritated but he was rummaging around in another container, not glaring at him. Sheppard took the machine, its smooth white casing familiar. Ancient tech.

Sure enough, the little screen lit up as he touched it, and several dots appeared, and a handful of ancient words. Life Signs Detector. Radim was looking at him and the device, his eyes darting from the screen to his face, an odd expression on his face. Calmly, Sheppard replied, “Looks like you were right.” Radim frowned and took back the device, which instantly shut down. “Can you tell it to stay on?”

Taking it back, Sheppard shrugged. “I can tell it that, but it might not work. Generally, if they require the gene to work, an instruction to stay working is fruitless.” Nonetheless, Sheppard _told_ the LSD to stay on and he handed it back to Radim. As the Genii’s hand touched the white surface, the screen went dead.

“How do I know you didn’t just tell it to stop working?”

Before he really thought about it, Sheppard smirked and said, “You don’t.”

Unimpressed, Laden picked up another ancient device from the box and said, “This is a weapon?” The round ball he put in Sheppard’s hand was smooth and sleek, an intricate design over the surface, but it looked a bit beat up. Sheppard shook his head, and said, “No, it’s a reconnaissance device. You can send it through a wormhole ahead of you to recon the other side.”

The ball did not light up or activate and Radim raised an eyebrow of query, studying his scanner at the same time. Sheppard sighed, “You don’t need the gene to operate this, just the control device. You know? To send it where you want to go.”

Grimacing but interested, Radim pulled out another piece of tech and said, “Like this?”

It was a control device, but not one for the recon sphere. Taking the control, Sheppard pursed his lips and replied, “No, this is for a quantum mirror, I think.”

“A what?”

“Quantum Mirror. The Ancients built them to recon and visit parallel dimensions.” Radim stared at him, mind ticking over with that intel and he mused, “Is it a big thing? Looks like an actual mirror?”

“Yes.”

Nodding, pleased Radim took both devices from him and handed him a small square communicator. “Comm right?”

“Yes. Doesn’t need the gene.”

The little device lay flat and unresponsive on his hand. “Is it broken?” Laden asked, staring at Sheppard’s hand like it was gold. “I have no idea. McKay could probably tell you.”

Laden snorted, unimpressed and exchanged the communicator for a triangular crystal. This one flickered briefly in Sheppard’s hand and Ladim grunted at the readings from the med scanner. “What is it?”

“No clue,” Sheppard replied studying the crystal, which was very definitely damaged. “Might have been a personal cloaking device, kinda looks like one. Definitely not working though. It’s code is very garbled.”

Laden peered at the scanner screen as he spoke and said keenly, “You can hear its code?”

“Sort of. The gene linked tech talks to you, in a way.” Sheppard wasn’t too interested in trying to describe it. It wasn’t something that readily leant itself to explanation. Radim though seemed to accept that and moved on to the next device.

They went on this way for nearly half an hour, Radim giving him broken, nearly dead and mostly useless ancient technology and Sheppard confirmed its functionality and purpose, if he knew. The majority of the tech was harmless, functional type stuff that would normally be left in the debris of an abandoned city or ship. Nothing of real note. Radim, initially interested and excited by seeing the devices light up and getting confirmation on their function, started projecting frustration and anger the further they got.

None of the devices or technology was a weapon, or really useful. Sheppard guessed that the Genii had bought this junk in the hope of finding something useful to fight the Wraith. The last piece of tech in the container was a broken LSD, its screen cracked and Radim didn’t even bother giving it to Sheppard.

Angrily, he put the stuff that mostly worked back in the container, and the rest he tipped onto the floor. He detached the sensors and despite his anger, carefully packed them and the reader away. Sheppard remained silent, passive, not wanting to provoke any come back. He felt a little exposed suddenly in the silence and his wings fluttered slightly, the injury a dull ache. Under the transparent bandages, his hands were red and angry, a small trickle of blood scabbed over under the wrapping.

Laden pulled over another similar looking container and opened it, his face grim and focused. This container did not have as many devices inside it and they didn’t look ancient in design at all. As Sheppard took a second, more detailed look at them, he felt his blood run cold. Radim took out one near the top, a short black rod embedded with round crystals with no discernible switches or buttons and said, “Here.” He moved to put the thing in Sheppard’s hand and Sheppard instantly moved his hand away and up, fingers outstretched.

“No. That’s not ancient technology.”

Radim stared at him, and at the rod, his eyes tight and curious. “What is it?”

Sheppard shrugged, “Not too sure. All I know is that it’s from the Elder Wars and whoever built it wanted to hurt Ancients. It’s a weapon alright, just one that’s directed at Ancients - only.”

“And Ancient gene carriers?” Radim surmised, his expression intrigued. He gripped the device a little tighter as Sheppard nodded. Throat thick with tension, Sheppard tensed, and watched Radim carefully, his eyes darting to the rod.

“Do you know who built it?” Laden asked.

Sheppard shook his head and croaked, “No. I just know that it hurts. A lot.”

Radim was pensive and gave Sheppard a considering look, one that he was all too familiar with. Caught in a moment of indecision, Sheppard weighed the options of toughing out the stare and making it seem like he wasn’t worried, or backing away, and creating a little space. Showing weakness and fear was never a good thing.

His indecision was a second too long. Radim feinted right and Sheppard flinched and missed his left hand rise, rod outstretched. The instant one of the crystals touched his skin, his world exploded in bright, white pain. Nerves on fire, muscles locked in a rictus of pain, Sheppard collapsed off the stool, crashing to the floor, wings crumpled beneath him. Unable to move, he rode out the wave of pain, heart and lungs screaming.

He sensed movement around him, but couldn’t tell who or what it was. Something touched his feet and then his hands, but all he could do was impatiently wait for the agony to fade. He knew that it only lasted a few minutes but felt like hours. As the red mist of pain fell from his eyes and he came back to the here and now, Sheppard looked up at the cracked dome ceiling, momentarily at a loss as to where he was. Radim’s heavy Pegasii was unintelligible but as the present trickled back into the fore, Sheppard groaned. And then he realised what Laden had said.

“I’m sorry. I need to know if they are all the same.”

Unable to move, muscles still stiff and unresponsive, Sheppard whispered, “Please. No.”

If Radim heard him, he ignored it. Sheppard couldn’t see which blasted device it was but its touch brushed his leg and he was lost. His scream was strangled and broken, as every muscle contorted and contracted, bones pushed to the point of breaking, tendons and sinews twisting as his body fought the insidious pain. For a long, awful minute, Sheppard was back on Riall’s Ha’tak, writhing on the deck as the System Lord experimented with various torture devices.

Radim though had only barely touched him, and the pain faded swiftly, but as the spasms and constrictions lessened in intensity, aftermath tremors set in, and Sheppard shivered and twitched in the dust, his wings brushing artful patterns he neither saw or cared about. The relief at seeing Radim rather than Riall’s white eyes was a direct contrast to the fear that clutched his heart when he saw the next ancient device. He mouthed, “No,” unable to speak, the familiar taste of blood in his mouth.

Laden looked sick, his face pale and wane. He really looked like he didn’t want to continue, but bent down nonetheless, the short, squat cube in his fist shiny in the afternoon light. Once Sheppard might have closed his eyes, and willed it away, but he stared, unable and unwilling to go back to that dark place.

“Hey! Stop! Stop!”

Radim turned, face red and McKay descended upon them, his own face red, interfaces flashing, wielding a wrench like a sword. Laden tensed, no doubt expecting some sort of attack and raised the cube as if it could be used against the little C’roid. McKay though, using those enhanced reflexes no doubt, caught his hand tightly and said, “Are you out of your sharding mind? You’re torturing him!”

His face even redder, angrier, Laden barked, “I paid a lot of money for this trash. I have to know if it’s all useless!”

In full furore, McKay snapped back, “Of course it’s all useless! I told you that when you were haggling with that surging Nargil! Did you really think that you could buy genuine, valuable Ancient tech for a couple thousand credits? Frakking moron!”

Neither one of them moved, and Sheppard watched them both, willing his limbs and body to stop shaking. If Radim ignored McKay and knocked him aside, Sheppard wanted to be able to at least run, hell, crawl away if he had to.

“Watch your tongue, McKay! Or I’ll have you shot!” Laden shouted, but McKay shouted back. “Go ahead! See how far you get with all this tech without me! You are not touching him again! Or do you get your rocks off causing people pain?”

The last sentence dripped with derision and scorn and Radim dropped the cube as it burned him as well. “You go too far, C’roid!”

“If it stops this insanity, then I don’t care, Genii!”

Radim stared at McKay, fists clenched, radiating shame and anger. Patches of sweat had broken out under his armpits and in the small of his back, and he looked like he really, really wanted to punch McKay. Instead though, after sneering at him, Laden growled, “See to him and then get that ancient database working. If it’s not working by sunset, then I’ll personally execute you both!”

With that threat, he stormed off, angrily knocking into McKay as he did and he signalled for the ashen faced, stunned scientists to follow him.

McKay stood in the silence, watching him stalk off and snarled in return, “Psychotic jackenape.” Belatedly he realised the cube was still in his hand and dropped it in the container like it was something disgusting. Tossing the other two devices inside, he closed the box and shoved it to the far end of the bench. Instantly, Sheppard felt some of the fear leave him, his heart rate calming.

McKay dropped to his knees and gently checked Sheppard’s vitals, wincing at the trickles of blood still streaming from his mouth. “Bit your tongue, huh? Bastard.” Without any fuss, the C’roid helped Sheppard sit up into a recovery position, head between his knees, wings curled around him. He kept a steady, comforting litany of meaningless chatter as he checked the spot where the first rod had touched Sheppard. “It’s blistering, but doesn’t seem too bad. I think your leg is worse.”

The second rod had touched his thigh, and the contact point was still a dull, throbbing pain. Scanning through the material of the trousers, McKay sighed, “It’s blistering, badly. I’ll get something to counteract it.” McKay moved to leave, and Sheppard shocked himself when he instinctively grabbed his arm and hissed, “Stay.” He continued to shake like he was freezing, limbs still not entirely his own.

McKay’s face was priceless. A mix of annoyance and pleased pride. Sheppard though felt fear tighten his throat again. He stared at his hand, gripping McKay’s arm. A thick cuff was around his wrist and it was connected to its pair on his other wrist by a long metallic cord. A similar cord was connected to the two rings surgically inserted into his ankles. His position with the Genii was definitely no longer in doubt. McKay grimaced at the restraints and sighed, “I wouldn’t be surprised if I was in restraints by the end of the day. And about to be staked out for the crazy-ass Athosians to surging eat. Bi-nodular fardling bastards, the lot of them.”

Sheppard had no idea what a bi-nodule or a fard was, but he completely agreed.

*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Species mentioned and notes on the galaxy:  
> The Ancient Galaxy: massive spiral galaxy with seven spiral arms centred around a huge core. The core is a massive collection of giant stars, clustered so closely together so as to make navigating and transversing the Core impossible. StarGates The names of the spiral arms are: Carina, Persion, Orion, Magellan, Omega, Centarii, and Pegasus.  
> This chapter takes place on: Athos, which is in the Pegasus arm of the galaxy. Athos was attacked by the Asurans soon after Helios. The majority of the population who survived left Athos and roam the galaxy as nomadic refugees.  
> The Ancients formulated a translation algorithm to assist the many varied species of the galaxy in communication. In recent years the Asurans have disrupted that algorithm and people no longer automatically understand one another  
> deGerans – a small, squat species from the Centarii spiral, with rough shell-like skin. Well known as traders, and slavers, they plant colonies of trees native to their home world, Spina Trees, on other worlds to harvest the fruit, bark and leaves which are used in medicines and food products around the galaxy . The deGarens are genderless and operate in trading consortiums other than families. Each consortium is led by a duHon, or Manager and can range from ten individuals to over a thousand. They view all other species as other customers or products.  
> Kurgens – a massive insect-like species from Carina. Loud and boisterous they make a great of noise and commotion but are generally a passive species. With no high technology or interstellar flight capacity their world is often raided by more developed species  
> Meroy – a batlike humanoid species from a forested planet in the Centarii spiral. On their homeworld they hardly, if ever, land and spend their lives on the wing or perched in trees. As a result, they are ungainly on land and ideally suited to the deGaren Spina byproduct trade.  
> Flittas – a delicate, small species from the Carina spiral, who hail from a low gravity world near the Core. Both genders are bald, with sticklike arms and four legs. Resembling a stick insect, they appear frail but are relatively strong despite the low gravity on their world. They pair off for life and are notorious breeders, one female being able to produce upward to 100 offspring in her lifetime. Males are excellent co-parents. Highly sociable and socially interlinked they do not thrive in isolation  
> Veesh – a birdlike species from the Centarii spiral, who are extremely xenophobic. As a result though, their technology is not on par with other worlds and deGaren slavers frequently target their colonies. Veesh refuse to use StarGates and bury all StarGates found on their colony worlds. Very little is known of their society and culture.  
> C’roid – a humanoid species from the Magellan spiral. They derive their genetic ancestry from the Ancients but have developed into a unique species entirely dependent on artificial cybernetic implants. From birth, C’roid children receive implants that are used to enhance their natural abilities. Family units are the prime base for child rearing, but adults tend to join corporations or conglomerates that form the basis of their social circles. Expulsion from a corporation will result in complete isolation as no other group will accept an expelled person. C'roids do not thrive outside of large social groups.  
> Genii – a humanoid species from the Pegasus spiral, within the Wraith Farming range of space. Preyed on by Wraith Hives for generations, on the surface they appear to be a low tech, agricultural society, but in truth are a ruthless, military based society determined to destroy the Wraith. While their technology is low grade and simplistic as a result of wraith strategy to keep their livestock defenceless, they remain intelligent and capable of adapting to situations, new technology and exploiting weaknesses.  
> Heliosan – a genetically modified variant of the Ancients, whose home planet was within the Persion spiral. Genetically designed by the Ancients as a warrior race, Helios was home to a large population of winged people who shared the Ancient gene marker with their creators. Two years ago (as this story occurs) the Asurans attacked Helios and completely annihilated them. Several Goa’uld system lords assisted with the genocide.


End file.
